ALEC  LLOYD 
COWPUNCHER 


Originally  published  under  the  title  of 

CUPID:  THE  COWPUNCH 


BY 

ELEANOR    GATES 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  POOR  LITTLE  RICH  GIRL, 
THE  PLOW  WOMAN,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

ALLEN    TRUE 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1907,  by  The  McClure  Company 


Published,  November,  1907 


Copyright,  1905, 1906, 19M,  by  The  Curtl»  Publishing  Company 
Copyright,  1906, 1907,  by  International  Magazlna  Company 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  ROSE  ANDREWS'S  HAND  AND  DOCTOR  BUGS'S 

GASOLINE  BRONC 3 

II.  A  THIRST-PARLOUR  MIX-UP  GIVES  ME  A 

NEW  DEAL 31 

III.  THE  PRETTIEST  GAL  AND  THE  HOMELIEST 

MAN 52 

IV.  CONCERNIN'   THE   SHERIFF  AND   ANOTHER 

LITTLE  WIDDA 85 

V.  THINGS  GIT  STARTED  WRONG       .       .       .  132 

VI.  WHAT  A  LUNGER  DONE 157 

VII.  THE  BOYS  Pur  THEY  FOOT  IN  IT              .  169 

VIII.  ANOTHER  SCHEME,  AND  How  rr  PANNED  OUT  195 

IX.  A  ROUND-UP  IN  CENTRAL  PARK     .       .       .  234  '< 

X.  MACIE  AND  THE  OP'RA  GAME        .       .       .  260 

XI.  A  BOOM  THAT  BUSTED 276 

XII.  AND  A  BOOM  AT  BRIGGS  .  300 


21299G3 


CHAPTER    ONE 

ROSE     ANDREWS'S     HAND     AND     DOCTOR 
BUGS'S     GASOLINE     BRONC 

"Sweet  is  the  vale  where  the  Mohawk  gently 
glides 

On  its  fair,  windin*  way  to  the  sea; 

'And  dearer  by  f-a-a-ar " 

"  Now,  look  a-here,  Alec  Lloyd,"  broke  in 
Hairoil  Johnson,  throwin'  up  one  hand  like  as  if 
to  defend  hisself,  and  givin'  me  a  kinda  scairt 
look,  "  you  shut  you'  bazoo  right  this  minute — 
and  git !  Whenever  you  begin  singin'  that  song,  I 
know  you're  a-figgerin'  on  how  to  marry  some- 
body off  to  somebody  else.  And  I  just  won't 
have  you  around!" 

We  was  a-settin'  t'gether  on  the  track  side  of 
the  deepot  platform  at  Briggs  City,  him 
a-holdin'  down  one  end  of  a  truck,  and  me  the 
other.  The  mesquite  lay  in  front  of  us,  and  it 
was  all  a  sorta  greenish  brown  account  of  the 
pretty  fair  rain  we'd  been  havin*.  They's  miles 


4  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

of  it,  y  savvy,  runnin'  so  far  out  towards  the 
^west  line  of  Oklahomaw  that  it  plumb  slices  the 
xsky.  .Through  it,  north  and  south,  the  telegraph 
poles  go  straddlin' — in  the  Erection  of  Kansas 
City  on  the  right  hand,  and  off  past  Rogers's 
Butte  to  Albuquerque  on  the  left.  Behind  us 
was  little  ole  Briggs,  with  its  one  street  of  square- 
front  buildin's  facin'  the  railroad,  and  a  scat- 
term'  of  shacks  and  dugouts  and  corrals  and 
tin-can  piles  in  behind. 

Little  ole  Briggs!  Sometimes,  you  bet  you* 
life,  I  been  pretty  down  on  my  luck  in  Briggs, 
and  sometimes  I  been  tumble  happy;  also,  I 
been  just  so-so.  But,  no  matter  how  things  pan 
out,  darned  if  I  cain't  allus  say  truthful  that 
she  just  about  suits  me — that  ornery,  little,  jerk-s 
iwater  town! 

The  particular  day  I'm  a-speakin'  of  was  a* 
jo-dandy — just  cool  enough  to  make  you  want 
t'  keep  you'  back  aimed  right  up  at  the  sun,  and 
without  no  more  breeze  than  'd  help  along  a 
butterfly.  Then,  the  air  was  all  nice  and  per- 
fumey,  like  them  advertisin'  picture  cards  you 
git  at  a  drugstore.  So,  bein'  as  I  was  enjoyin* 
myself,  and  a-studyin'  out  somethin'  as  I 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  5 

hummed  that  was  mighty  important,  why,  I 
didn't  want  t'  mosey,  no,  ma'am. 

But  Hairoil  was  mad.  I  knowed  it  fer  the 
reason  that  he'd  called  me  Alec  'stead  of  Cupid. 
Y'  see,  all  the  boys  call  me  Cupid.  And  I  ain't 
ashamed  of  it,  neither.  Somebody's  got  t'  help 
out  when  it's  a  case  of  two  lovin'  souls  that's 
bein'  kept  apart. 

"Now,  pardner,"  I  answers  him,  as  coaxin* 
as  I  could,  "  don't  you  go  holler  'fore  you're  hit. 
It  happens  that  I  ain't  a-figgerin'  on  no  hitch-up 
plans  fer  you." 

Hairoil,  he  stood  up — quick,  so  that  I  come 
nigh  fallin'  off  en  my  end  of  the  truck.  "  But 
you  are  fer  some  other  pore  cuss,"  he  says. 
'  You  as  good  as  owned  up." 

"Yas,"  I  answers,  "I  are.  But  the  gent  in 
question  wouldn't  want  you  should  worry  about 
him.  All  that's  a-keepin'  him  anxious  is  that 
mebbe  he  won't  git  his  gal." 

"  Alec,"  Hairoil  goes  on, — tumble  solemn,  he 
was — "  I  have  decided  that  this  town  has  had 
just  about  it's  fill  of  this  Cupid  business  of 
yourn — and  I'm  a-goin'  t'  stop  it." 

I  snickered.  "Y'  are?"  I  ast.  "Wai,  how?" 


6  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"By  marryin'  you  off.  When  you're  hitched 
up  you'self,  you  won't  be  so  all-fired  anxious  t' 
git  other  pore  fellers  into  the  traces." 

"  That  good  news,"  I  says.  "  Who's  the  for- 
iunate  gal  you've  picked  fer  me? " 

"  Never  you  mind,"  answers  Hairoil.  "  She's 
a  new  gal,  and  she'll  be  along  next  week." 

"Is  she  pretty?" 

"  Is  she  pretty!  Say!  Pretty  ain't  no  name 

fer  it !  She's  got  big  grey  eyes,  with  long,  black, 

i 

sassy  winkers,  and  brown  hair  that's  all  kinda 
curly  over  the  ears.  Then  her  cheeks  is  pink,  and 
she's  got  the  cutest  mouth  a  man  'most  ever 


seen." 


Wai,  a-course,  I  thought  he  was  foolin'.  (And 
mebbe  he  was — then.)  A  gal  like  that  fer  me! 
— a  fine,  pretty  gal  fer  such  a  knock-kneed,  slab- 
sided  son-of-a-gun  as  me?  I  just  couldn't  swal- 
ler  that. 

But,  aw!  if  I  only  had  'a'  knowed  how  that 
idear  of  hisn  was  a-goin'  t'  grow! — that  idear 
of  him  turnin*  Cupid  fer  me,  y'  savvy.  And  if 
only  I'd  'a'  knowed  what  a  tumble  bust-up  he'd 
fin'lly  be  responsible  fer  'twixt  me  and  the  same 
grey-eyed,  sassy- winkered  gal!  If  I  had,  it's  a 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  7 

cinch  I'd  'a'  sit  on  him  hard — right  then  and 
there. 

I  didn't,  though.  I  switched  back  on  to  what 
was  a-puzzlin'  and  a-worryin'  me.  "  Billy  Trow- 
hridge,"  I  begun,  "  has  waited  too  long  a'ready 
fer  Rose  Andrews.  And  if  things  don't  come 
to  a  haid  right  soon,  he'll  lose  her." 

Hairoil  give  a  kinda  jump.  "  The  Widda 
Andrews,"  he  says,  " — Zach  SewelTs  gal?  So 
you're  a-plannin'  t'  interfere  in  the  doin's  of  ole 
man  SewelTs  fambly." 

"Yas." 

He  reached  fer  my  hand  and  squz  it,  and  pre- 
tended t'  git  mournful,  like  as  if  he  wasn't  never 
goin'  t'  see  me  again.  "My  pore  friend!"  he 
says. " 

'  Wai,  what's  eatin'  you  now?  "  I  ast. 

"Nothin' — only  that  pretty  gal  I  tole  you 
about,  she's " 

Then  he  stopped  short. 

"She's  what?" 

He  let  go  of  my  hand,  shrug  his  shoulders, 
and  started  off.  "  Never  mind,"  he  called  back. 
"  Let  it  drop.  We'll  just  see.  Mebbe,  after  all, 
you'll  git  the  very  lesson  you  oughta  have.  Ole 


8  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

man  Sewell ! "  And,  shakin'  his  haid,  he  turned 
the  corner  of  the  deepot.  s 

Wai,  who  was  Sewell  anyhow? — no  better'n 
any  other  man.  I'd  knowed  him  since  'fore  the 
Oklahomaw  Rushes,  and  long  'fore  he's  wired-up 
half  this  end  of  the  Terrytory.  And  I'd  knowed 
his  oldest  gal,  Rose,  since  she  was  knee-high  to 
a  hop-toad.  Daisy  gal,  she  allus  was,  by  thun- 
der! And  mighty  sweet.  Wai,  when,  after  tyin'^ 
up  t'  that  blamed  fool  Andrews,  she'd  got  her 
matreemonal  hobbles  off  in  less'n  six  months — . 
— owin'  t'  Monkey  Mike  bein'  a  little  sooner  in 
the  trigger  finger — why,  d'you  think  I  was 
a-goin'  to  stand  by  and  see  a  tin-horn  proposi- 
tion like  that  Noo  York  Simpson  put  a  vent 
brand  on  her?  Niamey! 

It  was  ole  man  Sewell  that  bossed  the  first  job 
and  cut  out  Andrews  fer  Rose's  pardner.  Sew- 
ell's  that  breed,  y'  know,  hard-mouthed  as  a 
mule,  and  if  he  cain't  run  things,  why,  he'll  take 
a  duck-fit.  But  he  shore  put  his  foot  in  it  that 
time.  Andrews  was  as  low-down  and  sneakin'  as 
a  coyote,  allus  gittin'  other  folks  into  a  fuss  if 
he  could,  but  stayin'  outen  range  hisself.  The 
little  gal  didn't  have  no  easy  go  with  him — we 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  9 

all  knowed  that,  and  she  wasn't  happy.  Wai, 
Mike  easied  the  sittywaytion.  He  took  a  gun 
with  a'  extra  long  carry  and  put  a  lead  pill  where 
it'd  do  the  most  good;  and  the  hull  passel  of  us 
was  plumb  tickled,  that's  all,  just  plumb  tickled 
— even  t'  the  sheriff. 

I  said  pill  just  now.  Funny  how  I  just  fall 
into  the  habit  of  usin'  doctor  words  when  I  come 
to  talk  of  this  par&Vular  mix-up.  That's  'cause 
Simpson,  the  tin-horn  gent  I  mentioned,  is  a 
doc.  And  so's  Billy  Trowbridge — Billy  Trow- 
bridge  is  the  best  medicine-man  we  ever  had  in 
these  parts,  if  he  did  git  all  his  learnin'  right 
here  from  his  paw.  He  ain't  got  the  spondulix, 
and  so  he  ain't  what  you'd  call  tony.  But  he's 
got  his  doctor  certificate.,  O.  K.,  and  when  it 
comes  t'  curin',  he  can  give  cards  and  spades  to 
any  of  you'  highfalutin'  college  gezabas,  and 
then  beat  'em  out  by  a  mile.  .That's  straight! 

Billy,  he'd  allus  liked  Rose.  And  Rose'd  alms 
liked  Billy.  Wai,  after  Andrews's  s-a-d  endin', 
you  bet  I  made  up  my  mind  that  Billy'd  be  ole 
man  Sewell's  next  son-in-law.  Billy  was  smart 
as  the  dickens,  and  young,  and  no  drunk.  He 
hadn't  never  wore  no  hard  hat,  neither,  'r  reached 


10  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

his  mane  pompydory,  and  he  was  one  of  the  kind 
that  takes  a  run  at  they  fingernails  oncet  in  a 
while.  Now,  mebbe  a  puncher  'r  a  red  ain't  par- 
Ocular  about  his  hands;  but  a  profeshnal  gent's 
got  to  be.  And  with  a  nice  gal  like  Rose,  it  shore 
do  stack  up. 

But  it  didn't  stand  the  chanst  of  a  snow-man 
in  Yuma  when  it  come  to  ole  man  Sewell.  Doc 
Simpson  was  new  in  town,  and  Sewell'd  ast  him 
out  to  supper  at  the  Bar  Y  ranch-house  two  'r 
three  times.  And  he  was  clean  stuck  on  him.  To 
hear  the  ole  man  talk,  Simpson  was  the  cutest 
thing  that'd  ever  come  into  the  mesquite. 
And  Billy?  Wai,  he  was  the  bad  man  from 
Bodie. 

Say!  but  all  of  us  punchers  was  sore  when 
we  seen  how  Sewell  was  haided! — not  just  the 
ole  man's  outfit  at  the  Bar  Y,  y'  savvy,  but 
the  bunch  of  us  at  the  Diamond  O.  None  of 
us  liked  Simpson  a  little  bit.  He  wore  fine 
clothes,  and  a  dicer,  and  when  it  come  to  soothin' 
the  ladies  and  holdin'  paws,  he  was  there  with 
both  hoofs.  Then,  he  had  all  kinds  of  fool  jig- 
gers fer  his  business,  and  one  of  them  toot  sur- 
reys that's  got  ingine  haidlights  and  two  seats 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  11 

all  stuffed  with  goose  feathers  and  covered  with 
leather — reg'lar  Standard  Sleeper. 

It  was  that  gasoline  rig  that  done  Billy  dam- 
age, speakin'  financial.  The  minute  folks  knowed 
it  was  in  Briggs  City,  why  they  got  a  misery 
somewheres  about  'em  quick — just  to  have  it 
come  and  stand  out  in  front,  smellin'  as  all- 
fired  nasty  as  a'  Injun,  but  lookin'  turrible  styl- 
ish. The  men  was  bad  enough  about  it,  and 
when  they  had  one  of  Doc  Simpson's  drenches 
they  haids  was  as  big  as  Bill  Williams's  Moun- 
tain. But  the  women!  The  hull  cawieyard  of 
'em,  exceptin'  Rose,  stampeded  over  to  him.  And 
Billy  got  such  a  snow-under  that  they  had  him 
a-diggin'  fer  his  grass. 

I  was  plumb  crazy  about  it.  "  Billy,"  I  says 
one  day,  when  I  met  him  a-comin'  from  'Pache 
Sam's  hogan  on  his  biq/cle ;  "  Billy,  you  got  to 
do  somethin'."  (Course,  I  didn't  mention  Rose.) 
'  You  goin'  to  let  any  sawed-off,  hammered- 
down  runt  like  that  Simpson  drive  you  out? 
Why,  it's  free  grazin'  here ! " 

Billy,  he  smiled  kinda  wistful  and  begun  to 
brush  the  alkali  offen  that  ole  Stetson  of  hisn, 
turnin'  it  'round  and  'round  like  he  was  worried. 


12'  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"  Aw,  never  mind,  Cupid,"  he  says ;  "  — just  keep 
on  you'  shirt." 

But  pretty  soon  things  got  a  darned  sight 
.worse,  and  I  couldn't  hardly  hole  in.  Not  satisfied 
with  havin'  the  hull  country  on  his  trail  account 
of  that  surrey,  Simpson  tried  a  new  deal:  He 
got  to  discoverin'  bugs! 

He  found  out  that  Bill  Rawson  had  malaria 
bugs,  and  the  Kelly  kid  had  diphtheria  bugs,  and 
Dutchy  had  typhoid  bugs  that  didn't  do  business 
owin'  to  the  alcohol  in  his  system.  (Too  bad!) 
iWhy,  it  was  astonishin'  how  many  kinds  of  new- 
fangled critters  we'd  never  heard  of  was  a-livin* 
in  this  Terrytory! 

But  all  his  bugs  didn't  split  no  shakes  with 
Rose.  She  was  polite  to  Simpson,  and  friendly, 
but  nothin'  worse.  And  it  was  plainer  'n  the  nose 
on  you'  face  that  Billy  was  solid  with  her.  But 
the  ole  man  is  the  hull  show  in  that  f ambly,  y* 
savvy;  and  all  us  fellers  could  do  was  to  hope 
like  sixty  that  nothin'  'd  happen  to  give  Simpson 
a'  extra  chanst.  But,  crimini!  Somethin'  did  hap- 
pen :  Rose's  baby  got  sick.  Wouldn't  eat,  wouldn't 
sleep,  kinda  whined  all  the  time,  like  a  sick  purp, 
and  begun  to  look  peaked — pore  little  kid! 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  13 

I  was  out  at  the  Bar  Y  that  same  day,  and 
when  the  news  got  over  to  the  bunk-house,  we 
was  all  tumble  excited.  "Which'll  the  ole  man 
send  after,"  we  says,  " — Simpson  'r  Billy?" 

It  was  that  bug-doctor! 

He  come  down  the  road  two-forty,  settin'  up 
as  stiff  as  if  he  had  a  ramrod  in  his  backbone.  I 
just  happened  over  towards  the  house  as  he 
turned  in  at  the  gate.  He  staked  out  his  surrey 
clost  to  the  porch  and  stepped  down.  My!  such 
nice  little  button  shoes ! 

"Aw,  maw!"  says  Monkey  Mike;  "he's  too 
rich  fer  my  blood! " 

The  ole  man  come  out  to  say  howdy.  When 
Simpson  seen  him,  he  says,  "Mister  Sewell, 
they's  some  hens  'round  here,  and  I  don't  want 
'em  to  hop  into  my  machine  whilst  I'm  in  the 
house."  Then,  he  looks  at  me.  "  Can  you'  hired 
man  keep  'em  shooed? "  he  says. 

Hired  man!  I  took  a  jump  his  Erection  that 
come  nigh  to  splittin'  my  boots.  "  Back  up,  m' 
son,"  I  says,  reachin'  to  my  britches  pocket.  fc  I 
ain't  no  hired  man." 

Sewell,  he  puts  in  quick.  "  No,  no,  Doc,"  he 
says;  "this  man's  one  01*  the  Diamond  O  cow- 


14  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

boys.  Fer  heaven's  sake,  Cupid!  You're  gittin' 
to  be  as  touchy  as  a  cook !  " 

Simpson,  he  apologised,  and  I  let  her  pass  f  er 
that  time.  But,  a-course,  far's  him  and  me  was 
ccwcerned — wal,  just  wait.  As  I  say,  he  goes  in, 
' — the  ole  man  f  ollerin' — leavin'  that  gasoline  rig 
snortin'  and  sullin'  and  lookin'  as  if  it  was  just 
achin'  t'  take  a  run  at  the  bunk-house  and  bust 
it  wide  open.  I  goes  in,  too, — just  f  see  the  fun. 

There  was  that  Simpson  examinin'  the  baby, 
and  Rose  standin'  by,  lookin'  awful  scairt.  He 
had  a  rain-gauge  in  his  hand,  and  was  a-squintin* 
at  it  important.  "High  temper'ture,"  he  says; 
'  'way  up  to  hunderd  and  four."  Then  he  jabbed 
a  spoon  jigger  into  her  pore  little  mouth.  Then 
he  made  X  brands  acrosst  her  soft  little  back 
with  his  fingers.  Then  he  turned  her  plumb  over 
and  begun  to  tunk  her  like  she  was  a  melon.  And 
when  he'd  knocked  the  wind  outen  her,  he  pro- 
duced a  biq/cle  pump,  stuck  it  agin  her  chest, 
and  put  his  ear  to  the  other  end.  "  Lungs  all 

right,"  he  says;  "heart  all  right.  Must  be " 

Course,  you  know — bugs! 

"  But — but,  couldn't  it  be  teeth? "  ast  Rose. 

Simpson  grinned  like  she  was  a'  id  jit,  and  he 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  15 

was  sorry  as  the  dickens  fer  her.  "Aw,  a  baby 
ain't  all  teeth,"  he  says. 

Wai,  he  left  some  truck  'r  other.  Then  he 
goes  out,  gits  into  his  Pullman  section,  blows  his 
punkin  whistle  and  departs. 

Next  day,  same  thing.  Temper'ture's  still  up. 
Medicine  cain't  be  kept  down.  Case  tumble  puz- 
zlin*.  Makes  all  kinds  of  guesses.  Leaves  some 
hoss  liniment.  Toot!  toot! 

Day  after,  changes  the  program.  Sticks  a 
needle  into  the  kid  and  gits  first  blood.  Says 
somethin'  about  "  Modern  scientific  idears,"  and 
tracks  back  t'  town. 

Things  run  along  that-a-way  fer  a  week. 
Baby  got  sicker  and  sicker.  Rose  got  whiter 
and  whiter,  and  thinned  till  she  was  about  as 
hefty  as  a  shadda.  Even  the  ole  man  begun  t' 
look  kinda  pale  'round  the  gills.  But  Simpson 
didn't  miss  a  trick.  And  he  come  t'  the  ranch- 
house  so  darned  many  times  that  his  buckboard 
plumb  oiled  down  the  pike. 

"  Rose,"  I  says  oncet  to  her,  when  I  stopped 
by,  "cain't  we  give  Billy  Trowbridge  a  chanst? 
That  Simpson  doc  ain't  worth  a  hill  of  beans." 

Rose  didn't  say  nothin'.  She  just  turned  and 


16  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

lent  over  the  kid.  Gee  whiz!  I  hate  t'  see  a 
woman  cry! 

'Way  early,  next  day,  the  kid  had  a  convul- 
sion, and  ev'rybody  was  shore  she  was  goin'  to 
kick  the  bucket.  And  whilst  a  bunch  of  us  was 
a-hangin'  'round  the  porch,  pretty  nigh  luny 
about  the  pore  little  son-of-a-gun,  Bill  Rawson 
come — and  he  had  a  story  that  plumb  took  the 
last  kink  outen  us. 

I  hunts  up  the  boss.  "  Mister  Sewell,"  I  says, 
fcy  way  of  beginnin',  "  I'm  f card  we're  goin'  to 
lose  the  baby.  Simpson  ain't  doin'  much,  seems 
like.  What  y'  say  if  I  ride  in  fer  Doc  Trow- 
faridge? " 

"  Trowbridge?"  he  says  disgusted.  "No, 
ma'am!  Simpson'll  be  here  in  a  jiffy! " 

"  I  reckon  Simpson'll  be  late,"  I  says.  "  Bill 
Hawson  seen  him  goin'  towards  Goldstone  just 
now  in  his  thrashin'-machine  with  a  feemale 
settin'  byside  him.  Bill  says  she  was  wearin'  one 
of  them  fancy  collar-box  hats,  with  a  duck-wing 
hitched  on  to  it,  and  her  hair  was  all  mussy  over 
her  eyes — like  a  cow  with  a  board  on  its  horns 
— and  she  had  enough  powder  on  her  face  t' 
make  a  biscuit." 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  IT 

The  ole  man  begun  t'  chaw  and  spit  like  a 
bob-cat.  "  I  ain't  astin'  Bill's  advice,"  he  says. 
"  When  I  want  it,  I'll  let  him  know.  If  Simp- 
son's busy  over  t'  Goldstone,  we  got  to  wait 
on  him,  that's  all.  But  Trowbridge?  Not  no- 
ways ! " 

I  seen  then  that  it  was  time  somebody  mixed  in. 
I  got  onto  my  pinto  bronc  and  loped  fer  town. 
But  all  the  way  I  couldn't  think  what  t'  do.  So 
I  left  Maud  standin'  outside  of  Dutchy's,  and 
went  over  and  sit  down  next  Hairoil  on  the 
truck.  And  that's  where  I  was — a-hummin'  to 
myself  and  a-workin'  my  haid — when  he  give  me 
that  rakin'  over  about  playin'  Cupid,  and  warned 
me  agin  monkeyin'  with  ole  man  Sewell. 

Wai,  when  Hairoil  up  and  left  me,  I  kept 
right  on  a-studyin'.  I  knowed,  a-course,  that  I 
could  go  kick  up  a  fuss  when  Simpson  stopped 
by  his  office  on  his  trip  back  from  Goldstone. 
But  that  didn't  seem  such  a'  awful  good  plan. 
Also,  I  could 

Just  then,  I  heerd  my  cow-pony  kinda  whinny. 
I  glanced  over  towards  her.  She  was  standin' 
right  where  I'd  left  her,  lines  on  the  ground, 
eyes  peeled  my  way.  And  such  a  look  as  she  was 


18  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

a-givin'  me! — like  she  knowed  what  I  was  a-wor- 
ryin'  about  and  was  surprised  I  was  so  blamed 
thick. 

I  jumped  up  and  run  over  to  her.  "Maud," 
I  says,  "  you  got  more  savvy  'n  any  horse  I  know, 
bar  none.  Danged  if  we  don't  do  it! " 

First  off,  I  sent  word  t'  Billy  that  he  was  to 
show  up  at  the  Sewell  ranch-house  about  four 
o'clock.  And  when  three  come,  me  and  Maud 
was  on  the  Bar  Y  road  where  it  goes  acrosst  that 
crick-bottom.  She  was  moseyin'  along,  savin' 
herself,  and  I  was  settin'  sideways  like  a  real 
lady  so's  I  could  keep  a'  eye  towards  town. 
Pretty  soon,  'way  back  down  the  road,  'twixt  the 
barb-wire  fences,  I  seen  a  cloud  of  dust  a-travel- 
lin' — a-travellin'  so  fast  they  couldn't  be  no 
mistake.  And  in  about  a  minute,  the  signs  was 
complete — I  heerd  a  toot.  I  put  my  laig  over  then. 

Here  he  come,  that  Simpson  in  his  smelly 
Pullman,  takin'  the  grade  like  greased  lightin'. 
"Now,  Maud!"  I  whispers  to  the  bronc.  And, 
puttin'  my  spurs  into  her,  I  begun  t'  whip-saw 
from  one  fence  to  the  other. 

He  slowed  up  and  blowed  his  whistle. 

I  hoed  her  down  harder'n  ever. 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  19 

"  You're  a-skeerin'  my  boss,"  I  yells  back. 

"  Pull  t'  one  side,"  he  answers.  "  I  want  to 
git  by." 

But  Maud  wouldn't  pull.  And  everywheres 
Simpson  was,  she  was  just  in  front,  actin'  as  if 
she  was  scairt  plumb  outen  her  seven  senses.  The 
worse  she  acted,  a-course,  the  madder  I  got! 
Fin'lly,  just  as  Mister  Doc  was  managin'  to 
pass,  I  got  turrible  mad,  and,  cussin'  blue  blazes, 
I  took  out  my  forty-five  and  let  her  fly. 

One  of  them  hind  tires  popped  like  the  evenin* 
gun  at  Fort  Wingate.  Same  minute,  that  hide- 
bound rig-a-ma-jig  took  a  shy  and  come  nigh 
buttin'  her  fool  nose  agin  a  fence-post.  But 
Simpson,  he  geed  her  quick  and  started  on.  I 
put  a  hole  in  the  other  hind  tire.  She  shied  again 
— opposite  Erection — snortin'  like  she  was  wind- 
broke.  He  hawed  her  back.  Then  he  went 
a-kitin'  on,  leavin'  me  a-eatin'  his  dust. 

But  I  wasn't  done  with  him,  no,  ma'am. 

Right  there  the  road  make  a  kinda  horse-shoe 
turn — like  this,  y'  savvy — to  git  'round  a  fence 
corner.  I'd  cal'lated  on  that.  I  just  give  Maud 
a  lick  'longside  the  haid,  jumped  her  over  the 
fence,  quirted  her  a-flyin'  acrosst  that  bend,  took 


20  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

the  other  fence,  and  landed  about  a  hunderd  feet 
in  front  of  him. 

When  he  seen  me  through  his  goggles,  he 
come  on  full-steam.  I  set  Maud  a-runnin'  the 
same  direction — and  took  up  my  little  rope. 

About  two  shakes  of  a  lamb's  tail,  and  it  hap- 
pened. He  got  nose  and  nose  with  me.  I 
throwed,  ketchin'  him  low — 'round  his  chest  and 
arms.  Maud  come  short. 

Say!  talk  about  you'  flym* -machines !  Simp- 
son let  go  his  holt  and  took  to  the  air,  sailin'  up 
right  easy  fer  a  spell,  flappin'  his  wings  all  the 
time;  then,  doublin'  back  somethin'  amazin',  and 
fin'lly  comin'  down  t'  light. 

And  that  gasoline  bronc  of  hisn — minute  she 
got  the  bit,  she  acted  plumb  loco.  She  shassayed 
sideways  fer  a  rod,  buckin'  at  ev'ry  jump.  Pretty 
soon,  they  was  a  turn,  but  she  didn't  see  it.  She 
left  the  road  and  run  agin  the  fence,  cuttin'  the 
wires  as  clean  in  two  as  a  pliers-man.  Then, 
outen  pure  cussedness,  seems  like,  she  made 
towards  a  cottonwood,  riz  up  on  her  hind  laigs, 
dumb  it  a  ways,  knocked  her  wind  out,  pitched 
oncet  'r  twicet,  tumbled  over  on  to  her  quarters, 
and  begun  t'  kick  up  her  heels. 


He  lay  the  kid  lookiri*  up  and  put  his  finger 
into  her  mouth  " 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  21 

I  looked  at  Simpson.  He'd  been  settin'  on  the 
ground;  but  now  he  gits  up,  pullin'  at  the  rope 
gentle,  like  a  lazy  sucker.  Say!  but  his  face  was 
ornamented! 

I  give  him  a  nod.  "Wai,  Young-Man- That- 
Flies-Like-A-Bird? "  I  says,  inquirin'. 

He  began  to  paw  up  the  road  like  a  mad  bull. 
"  I'll  make  you  pay  f er  this ! "  he  bellered. 

"  You  cain't  git  blood  outen  a  turnip,"  I  an- 
swers, sweet  as  sugar;  and  Maud  backed  a  step 
'r  two,  so's  the  rope  wouldn't  slack. 

"  How  dost  you  do  such  a'  wfameous  thing!  " 
he  goes  on. 

'  You  gasoline  gents  got  t'  have  a  lesson,"  I 
answers;  "you  let  the  stuff  go  t'  you'  haids. 
Why,  a  hired  man  ain't  got  a  chanst  f  er  his  life 
when  you  happen  t'  be  travellin'." 

He  begun  t'  wiggle  his  arms.  "You  lemme 
go,"  he  says. 

"Go  where?  "last. 

"  T'  my  machine." 

I  looked  over  at  her.  She  was  quiet  now,  but 
sweatin'  oil  somethin'  awful.  "How  long'll  it 
take  you  t'  git  her  on  to  her  laigs?  "  I  ast. 

"  She's  ruined! "  he  says,  like  he  was  goin'  to 


22  Alec  Lloyd,    Cowpuncher 

bawl.  "And  I  meant  t'  go  down  to  Goldstone 
t'night." 

"That  duck- wing  lady'll  have  t'  wait  fer  the 
train,"  I  says.  "  But  never  mind.  I'll  tell  Rose 
Andrews  you  got  the  engagement."  Then  Maud 
slacked  the  rope  and  I  rode  up  t'  him,  so's  to  let 
him  loose.  "  So  long,"  I  says. 

"I  ain't  done  with  you!"  he  answers,  gittin' 
purple;  "  I  ain't  done  with  you! " 

"  Wai,  you  know  where  I  live,"  I  says,  and 
loped  off,  hummin'  the  tune  the  ole  cow  died  on. 

When  I  rid  up  to  the  Bar  Y  ranch-house, 
here  was  Billy,  gittin'  offen  that  little  bicycle 
of  hisn. 

"  Cupid,"  he  says,  and  he  was  whiter'n  chalk- 
rock,  "  is  the  baby  worse?  And  Rose " 

I  pulled  him  up  on  to  the  porch.  "Now's 
you'  chanst,  Billy,"  I  answers.  fr  Do  you3  darned- 
est!" 

Rose  opened  the  door,  and  her  face  was  as 
white  as  hisn.  "  Aw,  Billy !  "  was  all  she  says, 

Then  up  come  that  ole  fool  paw  of  hern, 
totin'  the  kid.  "What's  this?"  he  ast,  mad  as  a 
hornet.  "And  where's  Doc  Simpson?  " 

It  was  me  that  spoke.    "Doc  Simpson's  had 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  23 

a  tumble  accident,"  I  answers.  "His  gasoline 
plug  got  to  misbehavin'  down  the  road  a  piece, 
and  plumb  tore  her  insides  out.  He  got  awful 
shook  up,  and  couldn't  come  no  further,  so — 
knowin'  the  baby  was  so  sick — I  went  fer  Bill." 

"  Bill! "  says  the  ole  man,  disgusted.  "  Thun- 
deration! " 

But  Billy  had  his  tools  out  a'ready  and  was 
a-reachin'  fer  the  kid.  Sewell  let  him  have  her — 
cussin'  like  a  mule-skinner. 

"  That's  right,"  he  says  to  Rose;  "  that's  right, 

-let  him  massacree  her ! " 

Rose  didn't  take  no  notice.  "  Aw,  Billy ! "  she 
kept  sayin',  and  "  Aw,  baby! " 

Billy  got  to  doin'  things.  He  picked  somethin' 
shiny  outen  his  kit  and  slipped  it  into  a  pocket. 
Next,  he  lay  the  kid  lookin'  up  and  put  his  finger 
into  her  mouth. 

"  See  here,"  he  says  to  me. 

I  peeked  in  where  he  pointed  and  seen  a  reg'lar 
little  hawg-back  of  gum,  red  on  the  two  slopes, 
but  whitish  in  four  spots  along  the  ridge,  like 
they'd  been  a  snowfall.  Billy  grinned,  took  out 
that  shiny  instrument,  and  give  each  of  them 
pore  little  gum  buttes  the  double  cross — zip-zip, 


24  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

zip-zip,  zip-zip,  zip-zip.  And,  jumpin'  buffa- 
loes! out  pops  four  of  the  prettiest  teeth  a  man 
ever  seen! 

Bugs  ? — rats ! 

"  Now,  a  little  Bella  Donnie,"  says  Bill,  "  and 
the  baby'll  be  O.  K." 

"O.K.!  "says  Rose.  "Aw,  Billy!"  And  such 
a  kissin' ! — the  baby,  a-course. 

Ole  man  Sewell  stopped  swearin'  a  minute. 
"What's  the  matter?"  he  ast. 
S"  Teeth,"  says  Billy. 

Think  of  that!  Why,  the  trouble  was  so  clost 
to  Simpson  that  if  it'd  been  a  rattler,  it'd  'a'  bit 
him! 

ff  Teeth!  "  says  the  ole  man,  like  he  didn't  be- 
lieve it. 

"  Come  look,"  says  Billy. 

Sewall,  he  walked  over  to  the  baby  and  stooped 
down.  Then  all  of  a  suddent,  I  seen  his  jaw  go 
open,  and  his  eyes  stick  out  so  far  you  could  'a' 
knocked  'em  off  with  a  stick.  Then,  he  got  red 
as  a  turkey  gobbler — and  let  out  a  reg'lar  war- 
whoop. 

"Look  at  'em!"  he  yelped.  "Rose!  Rose!— 
look  at  'em!  Four  all  to  oncet!"  And  he  give 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  25 

the  doc  such  a  wallop  on  the  back  that  it  come 
nigh  to  knockin'  him  down. 

"I  know,"  I  says  sarcastic,  "but,  shucks!  a 
baby  ain't  all  teeth.  This  is  a  mighty  puzzlin' 
case,  and  Simpson " 

"  Close  you'  fly-trap,"  says  the  ole  man,  "  and 
look  at  them  teeth!  Four  of  a  kind — can  y' 
beat  it?" 

"Wa-a-al,"  I  says,  sniffin',  "they's  so,  so,  I 
reckon,  but  any  kid " 

"Any  kid!"  yells  the  ole  man,  plumb  agger- 
vated.  And  he  was  just  turnin'  round  to  give 
me  one  when — in  limps  Simpson! 

"  Mister  Sewell,"  he  says,  "  I  come  to  make  a 
complaint " — he  shook  his  fist  at  me — "  agin  this 
here  ruffian.  He " 

"Wow!"  roars  Sewell.  "Don't  you  trouble 
to  make  no  complaints  in  this  house.  Here  you 
been  a-treatin'  this  baby  fer  bugs  when  it  was 
just  teeth.  Say!  you  ain't  got  sense  enough  to 
come  in  when  it  rains !  " 

That  plumb  rattled  Simpson.  He  was  gittin' 
a  reception  he  didn't  reckon  on.  But  he  tried  t' 
keep  up  his  game. 

"  This  cow-boy  here  is  responsible  fer  damages 


26  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

to  my  auto,"  he  says.  "  The  dashboard's  smashed 
into  matches,  the  tumblin'-rods  is  broke,  the 
spark-condenser's  kaflummuxed,  and  the  hull 
blamed  business  is  skew-gee.  This  man  was  actin' 
in  you'  behalf,  and  if  he  don't  pay,  I'll  sue  you." 

"Sue?"  says  Sewall;  "sue1?  You  go  guess 
again !  You  send  in  you'  bill,  that's  what  you  do. 
You  ain't  earned  nothin' — but,  by  jingo,  it's 
worth  money  just  to  git  shet  of  such  a  dog-goned 
shyster  as  you.  Git." 

And  with  that,  out  goes  Mister  Bugs. 

Then,  grandpaw,  he  turns  round  to  the  baby 
ragain,  plumb  took  up  with  them  four  new  nip- 
pers. "  Cluck,  cluck,"  he  says  like  a  chicken,  and 
pokes  the  kid  under  the  chin.  Over  one  shoul- 
der, he  says  to  Billy,  "  And,  Trowbridge,  you  can 
make  out  you3  bill,  too." 

Billy  didn't  answer  nothin'.  Just  went  over 
to  a  table,  pulled  out  a  piece  of  paper  and  a 
pencil,  and  begun  t'  write.  Pretty  soon,  he  got 
up  and  come  back. 

"Here,  Mister  Sewell,"  he  says. 

I  was  right  byside  the  ole  man,  and — couldn't 
help  it — I  stretched  to  read  what  Billy'd  writ. 
And  this  was  what  it  was : 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  27 

Mister  Zach  Sewell,  debtor  to  W.  A.  Trow- 
fer  medical  services — the  hand  of  one 
lRose  Andrews  in  marriage." 

Sewell,  he  read  the  paper  over  and  over, 
turnin'  all  kinds  of  colours.  And  Billy  and  me 
come  blamed  nigh  chokin'  from  holdin'  our 
breaths.  Rose  was  lookin'  up  at  us,  and  at  her 
paw,  too,  tumble  anxious.  As  fer  that  kid,  it 
was  a-kickin'  its  laigs  into  the  air  and  gurglin* 
like  a  bottle. 

Fin'lly,  the  ole  man  handed  the  paper  back. 
"  Doc,"  he  says,  "  Rose  is  past  twenty-one,  and 
not  a'  id  jit.  Also,  the  kid  is  hern.  So,  bein'  this 
bill  reads  the  way  it  does,  mebbe  you'd  better 
hand  it  t'  her.  If  she  don't  think  it's  too  steep  a 
figger " 

Billy  took  the  paper  and  give  it  over  to  Rose. 
When  she  read  it,  her  face  got  all  blushy;  and 
happy,  too,  I  could  see  that. 

"Rose!"  says  Billy,  holdin'  out  his  two  arms 
to  her. 

I  took  a  squint  through  the  winda  at  the 
scenery — and  heerd  a  sound  like  a 
its  foot  outen  the  mud. 


28  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"  Rose,"  goes  on  Billy,  "  I'll  be  as  good  as  I 
know  how  to  you." 

When  I  turned  round  again,  here  was  ole 
man  Sewell  standin'  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
lookin'  back  and  forth  from  Rose  and  Billy  to 
the  kid — like  it'd  just  struck  him  that  he  was 
goin'  t'  lose  his  gal  and  the  baby  and  all  them 
teeth.  And  if  ever  a  man  showed  that  he  was 
helpless  and  jealous  and  plumb  hurt,  why,  that 
was  him.  Next,  here  he  was  a-gazin'  at  me  with  a 
queer  shine  in  his  eyes — almost  savage.  And  say  I 
it  got  me  some  nervous. 

"  Seems  Mister  Cupid  Lloyd  is  a-runninr 
things  'round  this  here  ranch-house,"  he  begun 
slow,  like  he  was  holdin'  in  his  mad. 

I — wal,  I  just  kinda  stood  there,  and  swal- 
lered  oncet  'r  twicet,  and  tried  t'  grin.  (Didn't 
know  nothin'  t'  say,  y*  savvy,  that'd  be  likely 
t'  hit  him  just  right.) 

"So  Cupid's  gone  and  done  it  again!"  he 
goes  on.  " How  accommodating  Haw!"  And 
he  give  one  of  them  short,  sarcastic  laughs. 
;{ Wal,  just  let  me  tell  you,"  he  continues, 
steppin'  closter,  "that  I,  fer  one,  ain't  got  UQ 
use  fer  a  feller  that's  allus  a-stickin'  in  his  lip.'* 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  29 

"  Sewell,"  I  says,  tf*  no  feller  likes  to — that's  a 
cinch.  But  oncet  in  a  while  it's  plumb  needful." 

"  It  is,  is  it?  And  I  s'pose  this  is  one  of  them 
cases.  Wai,  Mister  Cupid,  all  I  can  say  is  this: 
The  feller  that  sticks  in  his  lip  allus  gits  into 
trouble." 

Sometimes,  them  words  of  hisn  come  back  to 
me.  Mebbe  I'll  be  feelin'  awful  good-natured, 
and  be  a-laughin*  and  talkin'.  Of  a  suddent, 
up  them  words'll  pop,  and  the  way  he  said  'em, 
and  all.  And  even  if  it's  right  warm  weather, 
why,  I  shiver,  yas,  ma'am.  The  feller  that 
sticks  in  his  lip  allus  gits  into  trouble — nothin' 
was  ever  said  truer'n  that! 

"  And,"  the  ole  man  goes  on  again,  a  little  bit 
hoarse  by  now,  "  I  can  feel  you'  trouble  a-comin'. 
So  far,  you  been  lucky.  But  it  cain't  last — it 
cain't  last.  You  know  what  it  says  in  the  Bible? 
[(Mebbe  it  ain't  in  the  Bible,  but  that  don't  mat- 
ter. )  It  says,  '  Give  a  fool  a  rope  and  he'll  hang 
hisself .'  And  one  of  these  times  you'll  play  Cupid 
just  oncet  too  many.  What's  more,  the  smarty 
that  can  allus  bring  other  folks  together  cain't 
never  manage  t'  hitch  hisself." 

I'd  been  keepin'  still  'cause  I  didn't  want  they 


30  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

should  be  no  hard  feelin's  'twixt  us.  But  that 
last  remark  of  hisn  kinda  got  my  dander  up. 

"  Aw,  I  don't  know,"  I  answers ;  "  when  it 
comes  my  own  time,  I  don't  figger  t'  have  much 
trouble." 

Wai,  sir,  the  old  man  flew  right  up.  His  face 
got  the  colour  of  sand-paper,  and  he  brung  his 
two  hands  t'gether  clinched,  so's  I  thought  he'd 
plumb  crack  the  bones.  "Haw!"  (That 
laugh  again — bitter'n  gall.)  "Mister  Cupid 
Lloyd,  you  just  wait"  And  out  he  goes. 

"  Cupid,"  says  Billy,  "  I'm  tumble  sorry. 
Seems,  somehow,  that  you've  got  Sewell  down  on 
y'  account  of  me " 

"That's  all  right,  Doc,"  I  answers;  "I  don't 
keer.  It  mocks  nix  oudt,  as  Dutchy  'd  say." 
And  I  shook  hands  with  him  and  Rose,  and  kissed 
the  baby. 

It  mocks  nix  oudt — that's  what  I  said.  Wai, 
how  was  1 1'  know  then,  that  I'd  made  a'  enemy 
of  the  one  man  that,  later  on,  I'd  be  willin'  t'  give 

my  life  t'  please,  almost? — how  was  I  t'  know? 

'• 


CHAPTER    TWO 

A     THIRST-PARLOUR     MIX-UP     GIVES     ME 
A     NEW     DEAL 

AIN'T  it  funny  what  little  bits  of  things  can 
sorta  change  a  feller's  life  all  'round  ev'ry  which 
Erection — shuffle  it  up,  you  might  say,  and 
throw  him  out  a  brand  new  deal?  Now,  take 
my  case:  If  a  sassy  greaser  from  the  Lazy  X 
ranch  hadn't  'a'  plugged  Bud  Hickok,  Briggs 
City  'd  never  'a'  got  the  parson;  if  the  parson 
hadn't  'a'  came,  I'd  never  'a'  gone  to  church; 
and  mebbe  if  I  hadn't  never  'a'  gone  to  church, 
it  wouldn't  'a'  made  two  cents  difference  whether 
ole  man  Sewell  was  down  on  me  'r  not — fer  the 
reason  that,  likely,  I'd  never  'a'  met  up  with  Her. 

Now,  I  ain't  a-sayin'  I'm  a'  almanac,  ner  one 
of  them  crazies  that  can  study  the  trails  in  the 
middle  of  you'  hand  and  tell  you  that  you're 
a-goin'  to  have  ham  and  aigs  fer  breakfast. 
No,  ma'am,  I  ain't  neither  one.  But,  just  the 

91 


32  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

same,  the  very  first  time  I  clapped  my  lookers  on 
the  new  parson,  I  knowed  they  was  shore  goin' 
to  be  sev'ral  things  a-happenin'  'fore  long  in 
that  particular  section  of  Oklahomaw. 

As  I  said,  Bud  was  responsible  f  er  the  parson 
comin'.  Bud  tied  down  his  holster  just  oncet 
too  many.  The  greaser  called  his  bluff,  and 
pumped  lead  into  his  system  some.  That  called 
fer  a  funeral.  Now,  Mrs.  Bud,  she's  Kansas 
City  when  it  comes  to  bein'  high-toned.  And 
nothin'  would  do  but  she  must  have  a  preacher. 
So  the  railroad  agent  got  Williams,  Arizonaw, 
on  his  click-machine,  and  we  got  the  parson. 

He  was  a  new  breed,  that  parson,  a  genuwine 
no-two-alike,  come-one-in-a-box  kind.  He  was 
big  and  young,  with  no  hair  on  his  face,  and 
brownish  eyes  that  'peared  to  look  plumb  through 
y'  and  out  on  the  other  side.  Good-natured,  y* 
know,  but  actin'  as  if  he  meant  ev'ry  word  he 
said;  foolin'  a  little  with  y',  too,  and  friendly  as 
the  devil.  And  he  didn't  wear  parson  duds — 
just  a  grey  suit;  not  like  us,  y'  savvy — more 
like  what  the  hotel  clerk  down  to  Albuquerque 
wears,  'r  one  of  them  city  fellers  that  comes 
here  to  run  a  game. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  33 

Wai,  the  way  he  talked  over  pore  Bud  was  a 
caution.  Say !  they  was  no  "  Yas,  my  brother," 
'r  "  No,  my  brother,"  and  no  "  Heaven's  will  be 
done"  outen  him — no  thin'  like  it!  And  you'd 
never  'a'  smelt  gun-play.  Mrs.  Bud  ner  the 
greaser  that  done  the  shootin'-up  (he  was  at  the 
buryin')  didn't  hear  no  word  they  could  kick  at, 
no,  ma'am.  The  parson  read  somethin'  about 
the  day  you  die  bein'  a  darned  sight  better  'n  the 
day  you  was  born.  And  his  hull  razoo  was  so 
plumb  sensible  that,  'fore  he  got  done,  the  passel 
of  us  was  all  a-feelin',  somehow  'r  other,  that 
Bud  Hickok  had  the  drinks  on  us! 
I  We  planted  Bud  in  city  style.  But  the  par- 
son didn't  shassay  back  to  Williams  afterwards. 
We'd  no  more'n  got  our  shaps  on  again,  when 
Hairoil  blowed  in  from  the  post-office  up  the 
street  and  let  it  out  at  the  "  Life  Savin'  Station," 
as  Dutchy  calls  his  thirst-parlour,  that  the  parson 
was  goin'  to  squat  in  Briggs  City  fer  a  spell. 

:<  Wai,  of  all  the  dog-goned  propositions!" 

says   Bill   Rawson,   mule-skinner   over   to   the 

Little  Rattlesnake  Mine.  "What's  he  goin'  to 

do  that  fer,  Hairoil?" 

•     "  Heerd  we  was  goin'  to  have  a  polo  team," 


34  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

answers  Hairoil.  "  Reckon  he's  kinda  loco  on 
polo.  Anyhow,  he's  took  my  shack." 

"  Boys,"  I  tole  the  crowd  that  was  wettin'  they 
whistles,  "  this  preachin'  gent  ain't  none  of  you' 
ev'ry  day,  tenderfoot,  hell-tooters.  Polo,  hey? 
He's  got  savvy.  Look  a  leedle  oudt,  as  Dutchy, 
here,  'd  put  it.  Strikes  me  this  f eller'll  hang  on 
longer  'n  any  other  parson  that  was  ever  in  these 
parts  ropin'  souls." 

Ole  Dutch  lay  back  his  ears.  "  Better  he 
do'n  make  no  trubbles  mit  me,"  he  says. 

Say!  that  was  like  tellin'  you'  fortune.  The 
next  day  but  one,  right  in  front  of  the  "  Sta- 
tion," trouble  popped.  This  is  how: 

The  parson  'd  had  all  his  truck  sent  over  from 
Williams.  In  the  pile  they  was  one  of  them  big, 
spotted  dawgs — keerige  dawgs,  I  think  they  call 
'em.  This  particular  dawg  was  so  spotted  you 
could  'a'  come  blamed  nigh  playin'  checkers  on 
him.  Wai,  Dutchy  had  a  dawg,  too.  It  wasn't 
much  of  anythin'  fer  fambly,  I  reckon, — just 
plain  purp — but  it  shore  had  a  fine  set  of  nip- 
pers, and  could  jerk  off  the  stearin'  gear  of  a 
cow  quicker  'n  greazed  lightnin'.  Wai,  the  par- 
son come  down  to  the  post-office,  drivin'  a  two- 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  35 

wheel  thing-um-a-jig,  all  yalla  and  black. 
'Twixt  the  wheels  was  trottin'  his  spotted 
dawg.  A-course,  the  parson  'd  no  more'n 
stopped,  when  out  comes  that  ornery  purp  of 
Dutchy's.  And  such  a  set-to  you  never  seen! 

But  it  was  all  on  one  side,  like  a  jug  handle, 
and  the  keerige  dawg  got  the  heavy  end.  He 
yelped  bloody  murder  and  tried  to  skedaddle. 
The  other  just  hung  on,  and  bit  sev'ral  of  them 
stylish  spots  clean  off  en  him. 

"  Sir,"  says  the  parson  to  Dutchy,  when  he 
seen  the  damage,  "  call  off  you*  beast." 

Dutchy,  he  just  grinned.  "  Ock,"  he  says, 
"  it  mocks  nix  oudt  if  dey  do  sometinks.  Here  de 
street  iss  not  brivate  broperty." 

At  that,  the  parson  clumb  down  and  drug  his 
dawg  loose.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the  thirst- 
parlour.  "  What  a  name  f er  a  saloon"  he  says, 
"  in  a  civilised  country! " 

A-course,  us  fellers  enjoyed  the  fun,  all  right. 
And  we  fixed  it  up  t'gether  to  kinda  sic  the 
Dutchman  on.  We  seen  that  "  Life  Savin'  Sta- 
tion "  stuck  in  the  parson's  craw,  and  we  made 
out  to  Dutch  that  like  as  not  he  'd  have  to  change 
his  sign. 


36  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Dutch  done  a  jig  he  was  so  mad.  "  Fer 
dat?"  he  ast,  meanin'  the  parson.  "Nein! 
He  iss  not  cross  mit  my  sign.  He  vut  like  it, 
jnaype,  if  I  gif  him  some  viskey  on  tick.  I  bet 
you  he  trinks,  I  bet.  Maype  he  trinks  ret  ink 
gocktails,  like  de  Injuns;  maype  he  trinks 
Florita  Vater,  oder  golone.  Ya!  Ya!  Vunce, 
I  seen  a  feller — I  hat  some  snakes  here  in  algohol 
— unt  dat  feller  he  trunk  de  algohol.  Ya.  Unt 
de  minister  iss  just  so  bat  as  dat." 

Then,  to  show  how  he  liked  us,  Dutchy  set  up 
the  red-eye.  And  the  next  time  the  parson  come 
along  in  his  cart,  they  was  a  dawg  fight  in  front 
of  that  saloon  that  was  worth  two-bits  fer  ad- 
mission. 

Don't  think  the  rest  of  us  was  agin  the  parson, 
though.  We  wasn't.  Fact  it,  we  kinda  liked 
him  from  the  jump.  We  liked  his  riggin',  we 
liked  the  way  he  grabbed  you'  paw,  and  he  was 
no  quitter  when  it  come  to  a  hoss.  Say!  but  he 
could  ride !  One  day  when  he  racked  into  the  post- 
office,  his  spur-chains  a-rattlin'  like  a  punch- 
er's, and  a  quirt  in  his  fist,  one  of  the  Bar  Y 
boys  rounded  him  up  agin  the  meanest,  Zot£>down 
buckin'  proposition  that  ever  wore  the  hide  of  a 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  37 

bronc.  But  the  parson  was  game  from  his  hay 
to  his  hoofs.  He  clumb  into  the  saddle  and 
stayed  there,  and  went  a-hikin'  off  acrosst  the 
prairie,  independent  as  a  pig  on  ice,  just  like  he 
was  a-straddlin'  some  ole  crow-bait! 

So,  when  Sunday  night  come,  and  he  preached 
in  the  school-house,  he  had  quite  a  bunch  of 
punchers  corralled  there  to  hear  him.  And  I 
was  one  of  'em.  (But,  a-course,  that  first  time, 
I  didn't  have  no  idear  it  was  a-goin'  to  mean  a 
tumble  lot  to  me,  that  goin'  to  church.)  Wai, 
I'm  blamed  if  the  parson  wasn't  wearin'  the 
same  outfit  as  he  did  week  days.  We  liked  that. 
And  he  didn't  open  up  by  tellin'  us  that  we  was 
all  branded  and  ear-marked  a'  ready  by  the  Ole 
Long-horn  Gent.  Nb,  ma'am.  He  didn't 
mention  everlastin'  fire.  And  he  didn't  ramp 
and  pitch  and  claw  his  hair.  Fact  is,  he  didn't 
hell-toot ! 

A-course,  that  spoiled  the  fun  f er  us.  But  he 
talked  so  straight,  and  kinda  easy  and  honest, 
that  he  got  us  a-listenin'  to  what  he  said. 

Cain't  say  we  was  stuck  on  his  text,  though. 
It  run  like  this,  that  a  smart  man  sees  when  a 
row's  a-comin'  and  makes  fer  the  tall  cat-tails  till 


38  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

the  wind  dies  down.  And  he  went  on  to  say  that  a 
man  oughta  be  humble,  and  that  if  a  feller  gives 
you  a  lick  on  the  jaw,  why,  you  oughta  let  him 
give  you  another  to  grow  on.  Think  o'  that! 
It  may  be  O.  K.  fer  preachers,  and  fer  women 
that  ain't  strong  enough  t'  lam  back.  But  fer 
me,  nixey. 

But  that  hand-out  didn't  give  the  parson  no 
black  eye  with  us.  We  knowed  it  was  his  duty 
t'  talk  that-a-way.  And  two  'r  three  of  the  boys 
got  t'  proposin'  him  fer  the  polo  team  real  se- 
rious— pervided,  a-course,  that  he'd  stand  fer  a 
little  cussin'  when  the  'casion  required.  It  was 
a  cinch  that  he'd  draw  like  wet  rawhide. 

Wai,  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  he  did.  And 
:  Sunday  nights,  the  Dutchman  lost  money.  He 
begun  t'  josh  the  boys  about  gittin'  churchy.  It 
didn't  do  no  good, — the  boys  didn't  give  a  whoop 
fer  his  gass,  and  they  liked  the  parson.  All 
Dutchy  could  do  was  to  sic  his  purp  on  to 
chawin'  spots  off  en  that  keerige  dawg. 

But  pretty  soon  he  got  plumb  tired  of  just 
dawg-fightin'.  He  prepared  to  turn  hisself 
loose.  And  he  advertised  a  free  supper  fer  the 
very  next  Sunday  night.  When  Sunday  night 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  39 

come,  they  say  he  had  a  reg'lar  Harvey  layout. 
You  buy  a  drink,  and  you  git  a  stuffed  pickle, 
'r  a  patty  de  grass,  'r  a  wedge  of  pie  druv  into 
you*  face. 

No  go.  The  boys  was  on  to  Dutchy.  They 
knowed  he  was  the  stingiest  gezaba  in  these  parts, 
and  wouldn't  give  away  a  nickel  if  he  didn't 
reckon  on  gittin'  six-bits  back.  So,  more  f  er  devil- 
ment 'n  anythin'  else,  the  most  of  'em  fooled  him 
some — just  loped  to  the  school-house. 

The  parson  was  plumb  tickled. 

But  it  didn't  last.  The  next  Sunday,  the 
"  Life  Savin"  Station  "  had  Pete  Gans  up  from 
Apache  to  deal  a  little  faro.  And  as  it  rained 
hard  enough  t'  keep  the  women  folks  away, 
why,  the  parson  preached  to  ole  man  Baker  (he's 
deef),  the  globe  and  the  chart  and  the  map  of 
South  Amuricaw.  And  almost  ev'ry  day  of  the 
next  week,  seems  like,  that  purp  of  Dutchy's 
everlastin'ly  chawed  the  parson's.  The  spotted 
dawg  couldn't  go  past  the  thirst-parlour,  'r  any- 
wheres else.  The  parson  took  to  fastenin'  him 
up.  Then  Dutchy'd  mosey  over  towards  Hair- 
oil's  shack.  Out'd  come  Mister  Spots.  And 
one,  two,  three,  the  saloon  dawg  'd  sail  into  him. 


40  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Then  a  piece  of  news  got  'round  that  must  'a' 
made  the  parson  madder  'n  a  wet  hen.  Dutchy 
cleaned  the  barrels  outen  his  hind  room  and  put 
up  a  notice  that  the  next  Sunday  night  he'd 
give  a  dance.  To  finish  things,  the  dawgs  had 
a  worse  fight'n  ever  Friday  mornin',  and  the 
parson's  lost  two  spots  and  a'  ear. 

I  seen  a  change  in  the  parson  that  evenin'. 
When  he  come  down  to  the  post-office,  them 
brown  eyes  of  his'n  was  plumb  black,  and  his 
face  was  redder'n  Sam  Barnes's.  "  Things  is 
goin'  to  happen,"  I  says  to  myself,  "  'r  /  ain't 
no  judge  of  beef." 

Sunday  night,  you  know,  a-course,  where  the 
boys  went.  But  I  drawed  lots  with  myself  and 
moseyed  over  to  the  school-house  to  keep  a 
bench  warm.  And  here  is  when  that  new  deal 
was  laid  out  on  the  table  fer  you'  little  friend 
Cupid! 

I  slid  in  and  sit  down  clost  to  the  'door. 
Church  wasn't  begun  yet,  and  the  dozen  'r  so  of 
women  was  a-waitin'  quieter'n  mice,  some  of 
sem  readin'  a  little,  some  of  'em  leanin'  they  haids 
on  the  desks,  and  some  of  'em  kinda  peekin' 
through  they*  fingers  t'  git  the  lay  of  the  land. 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  41 

Wai,  I  stretched  my  neck, — and  made  out  t' 
count  more'n  fifty  spit-balls  on  a  life-size  chalk 
drawin'  of  the  school-ma'am. 

Next  thing,  the  parson  was  in  and  a-pumpin' 
away — all  fours — at  the  organ,  and  the  bunch  of 
us  was  on  our  feet  a-singin' 

"  Yield  not  to  tempta-a-ation, 
'Cause  yieldin'  is  sin. 
Each  vie' try " 

We'd  got  about  that  far  when  I  shut  off,  all 
of  a  suddent,  and  cocked  my  haid  t'  listen. 
Whose  voice  was  that? — as  clear,  by  thunder! 
as  the  bugle  up  at  the  Reservation.  Wai,  sir,  I 
[just  stood  there,  mouth  wide  open. 

"Some  other  to  win. 
Strive  manfully  onwards " 


Then,  I  begun  t'  look  'round.  Couldn't  be 
the  Kelly  kid's  maw  (I'd  heerd  her  call  the 
hawgs) ,  ner  the  teacher,  ner  that  tall  lady  next 
.her,  ner 

Spotted  the  right  one!  Up  clost  to  the  organ 
was  a  gal  I'd  never  saw  afore.  So  many  was  in 


42  Alec  Lloyd,    Cowpuncher 

the  way  that  I  wasn't  able  t'  git  more'n  a  squint 
at  her  back  hair.  But,  say!  it  was  mighty 
pretty  hair — brown,  and  all  sorta  curly  over  the 
ears. 

When  the  song  was  over,  ole  lady  Baker  sit 
down  just  in  front  of  me;  and  as  she's  some 
chunky,  she  cut  off  nearly  the  hull  of  my  view. 
"  But,  Cupid,"  I  says  to  myself,  "  I'll  bet  that 
wavy  hair  goes  with  a  sweet  face." 

Minute  after,  the  parson  begun  t'  speak. 
Wai,  soon  as  ever  he  got  his  first  words  out,  I  seen 
that  the  air  was  kinda  blue  and  liftin',  like  it  is 
'fore  a  thunder-shower.  And  his  text?  It  was, 
"  Lo,  I  am  full  of  fury,  I  am  weary  with  holdin* 
it  in." 

Say!  that 's  the  kind  of  preachin'  a  puncher 
]ikes! 

After  he  was  done,  and  we  was  all  ready  t* 
go,  I  tried  to  get  a  better  look  at  that  gal.  But 
the  women  folks  was  movin'  my  Erection,  shakin* 
hands  and  gabblin'  fast  to  make  up  fer  lost  time. 
Half  a  dozen  of  'em  got  'round  me.  And  when 
I  got  shet  of  the  bunch,  she  was  just  a-passin' 
out  at  the  far  door.  My !  such  a  slim,  little  figger 
and  such  a  pert,  little  haid! 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  43 

I  made  fer  the  parson.  ff  Excuse  me,"  I  says 
to  him,  "  but  wasn't  you  talkin'  to  a  young  lady 
just  now?  and  if  it  ain't  too  gaily,  can  I  in- 
quire who  she  is  ?  " 

"Why,  yas,"  answers  the  parson,  smilin'  and 
puttin'  one  hand  on  my  shoulder.  (You  know 
that  cuss  never  oncet  ast  me  if  I  was  a  Christian  ? 
Aw!  I  tell  y',  he  was  a  gent.)  "That  young 
lady  is  Billy  Trowbridge's  sister-in-law." 

"Sister-in-law!"  I  repeats.  (She  was  mar- 
ried, then. T  Gee!  I  hated  t'  hear  that! 
'Cause,  just  havin'  helped  Billy  t'  git  his  wife,  y* 

savvy,  why )  "But,  parson,  I  didn't  know 

the  Doc  had  a  brother."  (I  felt  kinda  down  on 
Billy  all  to  oncet.) 

"He  ain't,"  says  the  parson.  "  (Good-night, 
Mrs.  Baker.)  This  young  lady  is  Mrs.  Trow- 
bridge's sister." 

"Mrs.  Trowbridge's  sister?" 

'  Yas, — ole  man  Sewell's  youngest  gal. 
She's  been  up  to  St.  Louis  goin'  t'  school."  He 
turned  out  the  bracket  lamp. 

Ole  man  Sewell's  youngest  gal!  Shore 
enough,  they  was  another  gal  in  that  fambly. 
But  she  was  just  a  kid  when  she  was  in  Briggs 


44  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

the  last  time, — not  more'n  fourteen  'r  fifteen, 
anyhow, — and  I'd  clean  fergot  about  her. 

"  Her  name's  Macie,"  goes  on  the  parson. 

"Macie — Macie    Sewell — Macie."     I   said   it 
,' over  to  myself  two  'r  three  times.    I'd  never 
liked  the  name  Sewell  afore.    But  now,  some- 
how, along  with  Her  name,  it  sounded  awful 
fine.   "Macie — Macie  Sewell." 

"  Cupid,  I  wisht  you'd  walk  home  witK  me," , 
'says  the  parson.  "  I  want  t'  ast  you  about 
somethin'." 

"  Tickled  t'  death." 

Whilst  he  locked  up,  I  waited  outside.  "  M*, 
son,"  I  says  to  myself,  "nothin'  could  be  fool- 
isher  than  fer  you  to  git  you*  eye  fixed  on  a  be- 
longin'  of  ole  man  Sewell's.  Just  paste  that 
in  you'  sunbonnet." 

Wai,  I  rid  Shank's  mare  over  t'  Han-oil's. 
Whilst  we  was  goin',  the  parson  opened  up  on 
the  subject  of  Dutchy  and  that  nasty,  mean 
purp  of  hisn.  And  I  ketched  on,  pretty  soon,, 
to  just  what  he  was  a-drivin'  at.  I  fell  right  in 
iwith  him.  I'd  never  liked  Dutchy  such  a  tur- 
rible  lot  anyhow, — and  I  did  want  t'  be  a  friend 
to  the  parson.  So  fer  a  hour  after  we  hit  the 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  45 

shack,  you  might  'a'  heerd  me  a-talkin'  (if  you'd 
been  outside)  and  him  a-laughin'  ev'ry  minute 
'r  so  like  he'd  split  his  sides. 

Monday  was  quiet.  I  spent  the  day  at  Sil- 
.verstein's  Gen'ral  Merchandise  Store,  which  is 
next  the  post-office.  (Y*  see,  She  might  come 
in  fer  the  Bar  Y  mail.)  The  parson  got  off  a 
long  letter  to  a  feller  at  Williams.  And  Dutchy 
was  awful  busy — fixin'  up  a  fine  shootin'-gal- 
lery  at  the  back  of  his  "  Life  Savin'  Station." 
fr  Tuesday,  somethin'  happened  at  the  parson's. 
Right  off  after  the  five-eight  train  come  in 
from  the  south,  Hairoil  druv  down  to  the  deepot 
and  got  a  big,  square  box  and  rushed  home  with 
it?  When  he  come  into  the  thirst-parlour  about 
sun-set,  the  boys  ast  him  what  the  parson  was 
gittin'.  He  just  wunk. 

"  I  bet  I  knows,"  says  Dutchy.  "  De  preacher 
mans  buys  some  viskey,  alretty." 

Hairoil  snickered.  "Wai,"  he  says,  "what 
I  carried  over  was  nailed  up  good  and  tight,  all 
right,  all  right." 

Wai,  say!  that  made  the  boys  suspicious,  and 
made  'em  wonder  if  they  wasn't  a  darned  good 
reason  fer  the  parson  not  wearin'  duds  like  other 


46  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

religious  gents,  and  fer  his  knowin'  how  to  ride 
so  good.  And  they  was  sore — bein'  that  they'd 
stood  up  so  strong  fer  him,  y*  savvy. 

"  A  cow-punch,"  says  Monkey  Mike,  "  '11 
swaller  almost  any  ole  thing,  long  's  it's  right  out 
on  the  table.  But  he  shore  cain't  go  a  hippy- 
crit" 

'You  blamed  id  jits!"  chips  in  Buckshot  Mil-< 
likin,  him  that  owns  such  a  tumble  big  bunch  of 
white-faces,  and  was  run  outen  Arizonaw  fer 
rustlin'  sheep,  "  what  can  y'  expect  of  a  preacher 
that  comes  from  Williams?'1 

Dutchy  seen  how  they  all  felt,  and  he  was 
plumb  happy.  "  Vot  I  tole  y'  ? "  he  ast.  But 
pretty  soon  he  begun  to  laugh  on  the  other  side  ( 
of  his  face.  "  If  dat  preacher  goes  to  run  a  bar 
agin  me,"  he  says,  "  py  golly,  I  makes  no  more 
moneys ! " 

Fer  a  minute,  he  looked  plumb  scairt. 

But  the  boys  was  plumb  disgusted.  "  The 
parson's  been  playin*  us  fer  suckers,"  they  says 
to  each  other;  "he's  been  a-soft-soapin'  us, 
a-ftimflammin'  us.  He  thinks  we's  as  blind  as 
day-ole  kittens."  And  the  way  that  Tom-fool 
of  a  Hairoil  hung  'round,  lookin'  wise,  got  un- 


\Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncker  47 

der  they  collar.  After  they'd  booted  him  outen 
the  shebang,  they  all  sit  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
stoop,  just  sayin'  nothin' — but  sawin'  wood. 

I  sit  down,  too. 

We  wasn't  there  more'n  ten  minutes  when 
one  of  the  fellers  jumped  up.  "There  comes 
the  parson  now,"  he  says. 

Shore  enough.  There  come  the  parson  in  his 
fancy  two-wheel  Studebaker,  lookin'  as  perky  as 
thunder.  "Gall?"  says  Buckshot.  "Wai,  I 
should  smile!"  Under  his  cart,  runnin'  'twixt 
them  yalla  wheels,  was  his  spotted  dawg. 

I  hollered  in  to  Dutchy.  "Where's  you* 
purp,  Dutch?  VI  ast.  "  The  parson's  haided  this 
way." 

Dutchy  was  as  tickled  as  a  kid  with  a  lookin'- 
glass  and  a  hammer.  He  dropped  his  bar-towel 
and  bawled  out  his  purp. 

"  Vatch  me  I "  he  says. 

The  parson  was  a  good  bit  closter  by  now, 
settin'  up  straight  as  a  telegraph  pole,  and  a-hum- 
min'  to  hisself.  He  was  wearin'  one  of  them 
caps  with  a  cow-catcher  'hind  and  'fore,  knee 
britches,  boots  and  a  sweater. 

"  A  svetter,  mind  y' ! "  says  Dutchy. 


48  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"Be  a  Mother  Hubbard  next"  says  Bill 
Rawson. 

Somehow,  though,  as  the  parson  come  'long- 
side  the  post-office,  most  anybody  wouldn't  'a* 
liked  the  way  thinks  looked.  You  could  sorta 
smell  somethin'  explodey.  He  was  too  all-fired 
songful  to  be  natu'al.  And  his  dawg!  That 
speckled  critter  was  as  diif 'rent  from  usual  as 
the  parson.  His  good  ear  was  curled  up  way  in, 
and  he  was  kinda  layin'  clost  to  the  ground  as 
he  trotted  along — layin'  so  clost  he  was  plumb 
bow-legged. 

Wai,  the  parson  pulled  up.  And  he'd  no 
more'n  got  ofFen  his  seat  when,  first  rattle  outen 
the  box,  them  dawgs  mixed. 

Gee  whillikens!  such  a  mix!  They  wasn't 
much  of  the  reg'lar  ki-yin'.  Dutchy's  purp 
yelped  some;  but  the  parson's?  Not  fer  him! 
He  just  got  a  good  holt — a  shore  enough  dia- 
mond hitch — on  that  thirst-parlour  dawg,  and 
chawed.  Say!  And  whilst  he  chawed,  the  dust 
riz  up  like  they  was  one  of  them  big  sand- 
twisters  goin'  through  Briggs  City.  All  of  a 
suddent,  how  that  spotted  dawg  could  fight ! 

Dutchy  didn't  know  what  'd  struck  him.  He 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  49 

runs  out.  "Come,  hellup,"  he  yells  to  the  par- 
son. 

The  parson  shook  his  head.  "  This  street  is 
not  my  private  property,"  he  says. 

Then  Dutchy  jumped  in  and  begun  t'  kick  the 
parson's  dawg  in  the  snoot.  The  parson  walks 
up  and  stops  Dutchy. 

That  made  the  Dutchman  tumble  mad.  He 
didn't  have  no  gun  on  him,  so  out  he  jerks  his 
pig-sticker. 

What  happened  next  made  our  eyes  plumb 
stick  out.  iThat  parson  side-stepped,  put  out  a 
hand  and  a  foot,  and  with  that  highfalutin' 
Jewie  Jitsie  you  read  about,  tumbled  corn-beef- 
and-cabbage  on  to  his  back.  Then  he  straddled 
him  and  slapped  his  face. 

"Lieber!"  screeched  Dutchy. 

"  Coin'  t'  have  any  more  Sunday  night 
dances? "  ast  the  parson.  (Bing,  bang.} 

"Nein!  Nein!" 

"Any  more"  (bing,  bang)  t(t  free  Sunday 
suppers?" 

"Nein!  Nein!  Hellup!" 

"  Coin'  to  change  this  "  {biff,  biff)  "  saloon's 
name ! " 


50  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"Ya!  Ya!  Gottl" 

The  parson  got  up.  "  Amen! "  he  says. 

Then  he  runs  into  Silverstein's,  grabs  a  pail 
of  water,  comes  out  again,  and  throws  it  on  to 
the  dawgs. 

The  Dutchman's  purp  was  done  fer  a'ready. 
And  the  other  one  was  tired  enough  to  quit.  So 
when  the  water  splashed,  Dutchy  got  his  dawg 
by  the  tail  and  drug  him  into  the  thirst-parlour. 

But  that  critter  of  the  parson's.  Soon  as  the 
water  touched  him,  them  spots  of  hisn  begun  to 
run.  Y'  see,  he  wasn't  the  stylish  keerige  dawg 
at  all!  He  was  a  jimber- jawed  bull! 

Wai,  the  next  Sunday  night,  the  school-house 
was  chuck  full.  She  wasn't  there — no,  Monkey 
Mike  tole  me  she  was  visitin'  down  to  Gold- 
stone;  but,  a-course,  all  the  rest  of  the  women 
folks  was.  And  about  forty-'leven  cow-punch- 
ers was  on  hand,  and  Buckshot,  and  Rawson 
and  Dutchy, — yas,  ma'am,  Dutchy  f  we  rounded 
him  up.  Do  y'  think  after  such  a  come-off  we 
was  goin'  to  let  that  limburger  run  any  compyti- 
tion  place  agin  our  parson? 

And  that  night  the  parson  stands  up  on  the 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  51 

platform,  his  face  as  shiny  as  a  milk-pan,  and  all 
smiles,  and  he  looked  over  that  cattle-town 
hunch  and  says,  "  I  take  f  er  my  text  this  evenin', 
'  And  the  calf,  and  the  young  lion  and  the  f  atlin' 
shall  lie  down  iu  peace 


CHAPTER    THREE 

THE    PRETTIEST   GAL 
AND   THE   HOMELIEST   MAN 

I'M  just  square  enough  to  own  up  it  was  one 
on  me.  But  f ar's  that  par&'cular  mix-up  goes,  I 
can  afford  to  be  honest,  and  let  anybody  snicker 
that  wants  to — seem'  the  way  the  hull  thing 
turned  out.  'Cause  how  about  Doc  Simpson? 
Didn't  I  git  bulge  Xumber  Two  on  him?  And 
how  about  the  little  gal?  Didn't  it  give  me  my 
first  chanst?  Course,  it  did!  And  now,  some- 
times, when  I  want  to  feel  happier 'n  a  frog  in  a 
puddle,  just  a-thinkin'  it  all  over,  I  lean  back, 
shut  my  two  eyes,  and  say,  "  Ladies  and  gents, 
this  is  where  you  git  the  Blackfoot  Injun 
Root-ee,  the  Pain  Balm,  the  Cough  Balsam,  the 
Magic  Salve  and  the  Worm  Destroyer — the  fi-i- 
ive  remedies  f  er  twTo  dollars !  " 

That  medicine  show  follered  the  dawg  fight. 
It  hit  Briggs  City  towards  sundown  one  day,  in 
a  prairie-schooner  drawed  by  twro  big,  white 

52 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  53 

mules,  and  druv  up  to  the  eatin'-house.  Out  got 
a  smooth-faced,  middle-aged  feller  in  a  linen 
duster  and  half  a'  acre  of  hat — kinda  part  judge, 
part  scout,  y'  savvy ;  out  got  two  youngish  fellers 
in  fancy  vests  and  grey  dicers;  next,  a'  Injun 
in  a  blanket,  and  a  lady  in  a  yalla-striped  shirt- 
waist. Wai,  sir,  it  was  just  like  they'd  struck 
that  town  to  start  things  a-movin'  f er  me ! 

The  show  hired  the  hall  over  Silverstein's  store. 
Then  one  of  them  fancy  vests  walked  up  and 
down  Front  Street,  givin'  out  hand-bills.  The 
other  sent  word  to  all  the  ranches  clost  by.  and 
the  Injun  went  'round  to  them  scattered  houses 
over  where  the  parson  and  Doc  Trowbridge  lives. 

Them  hand-bills  read  somethin'  like  this:  The 
.Renowned  Blackfoot  Medicine  Company  Gives 
Its  First  Performance  T'Night!  Grand  Open- 
Air  Band  Concert.  Come  One,  Come  All.  Free ! 
Free!  Free!  3 — The  Marvellous  Murrays — 3. 
To-Ko,  the  Human  Snake,  The  World  Has 
Not  His  Equal.  Miss  Vera  de  Mille  In  Be- 
witchin'  Song  and  Dance.  Amuricaw's  Greatest 
Nigger  Impersynater.  The  Fav'rite  Ban  joist 
of  the  Sunny  South.  Injun  Shadda  Pictures, — 
and  a  hull  lot  more  I  cain't  just  recall. 


54  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

When  I  seen  that  such  a  big  bunch  was  a-goin* 
to  preform,  I  walked  over  and  peeked  into  that 
schooner.  I  figgered,  y'  savvy,  that  they  was 
some  more  people  in  it  that  hadn't  come  out  yet. 
But  they  wasn't — only  boxes  and  boxes  of  bot- 
tles. 

Right  after  supper,  that  medicine  outfit  played 
in  front  of  Silverstein's.  The  judge-lookin'  feller 
beat  the  drum,  the  Injun  blowed  a  big  brass  din- 
guss,  the  gal  a  clari'net,  and  the  other  two  fellers 
some  shiny  instruments  curlier'n  a  pig's  tail. 
But  it  was  bully,  that's  all  I  got  to  say,  and 
drawed  like  a  mustard  plaster.  'Cause  whilst  in 
Oklahomaw  a  Injun  show  don't  count  f er  much, 
bein'  that  we  got  more'n  our  fill  of  reds,  all  the 
same,  with  music  throwed  in,  Briggs  City  was 
there.  And  Silverstein's  hall  was  just  jam- 
packed. 

The  front  seats  was  took  up  by  the  town  kids, 
a-course.  Then  come  the  wromen  and  gals, — a 
sprinklin'  of  men  amongst  'em ;  behind  them,  the 
cow-punchers.  And  in  the  back  end  of  the  place 
a  dozen  'r  so  of  niggers  and  cholos.  Whilst  all 
was  a-waitin'  f  er  the  show  to  begin,  the  punchers 
done  a  lot  of  laughin'  and  cat-callin'  to  each  other, 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  55 

and  made  some  consider'ble  noise.  I  was  along 
with  the  rest,  only  up  in  one  of  the  side  windas, 
settin'  on  the  sill  and  swingin'  my  hoofs. 

When  the  show  opened,  they  was  first  a  fine 
piece — a  march,  I  reckon — by  the  band.  All  the 
time,  more  people  was  a-comin'  in.  'Mongst  'em 
was  Doc  Trowbridge  and  Rose,  and  Up- State — 
he  was  that  pore  lunger  that  was  here  from  the 
East,  y'  savvy.  Next,  right  after  them  three,  that 
Doc  Simpson  I  was  so  all-fired  stuck  on.  And, 
along  with  him,  a  gal. 

Wai,  who  do  you  think  it  was!  I  knowed  to 
oncet.  They  wasn't  no  mistakin'  that  slim,  little 
figger  and  that  pert  little  haid.  It  was  Her! 

"  Cupid,"  whispered  Hairoil  Johnson  (he  was 
settin'  byside  me) ,  "  it  looks  to  me  like  you  didn't 
much  discourage  that  Noo  York  doc  who  owns 
what's  left  of  a  toot  buggy.  Failin'  to  git  the 
oldest  gal  out  at  the  Bar  Y,  why,  HOW  he's  a-sail- 
in'  'round  with  the  youngest  one." 

I  didn't  say  nothin'.  I  was  a-watchin'  where 
she  was.  I  wanted  t'  ketch  sight  of  her  face. 

"  I  devilled  ole  man  Sewell  about  kickin'  him 
out  and  then  takin'  him  back,"  goes  on  Hairoil. 
"  And  Sewell  said  he  was  a  punk  doctor,  but  aw- 


56  A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

ful  good  comp'ny.  Huh!  Comp'ny  ain't  what 
that  dude's  after.  He's  after  a  big  ranch  and  a 
graded  herd.  It's  a  blamed  pity  you  didn't  git 
him  sent  up  t'  Kansas  City  f  er  repairs." 

The  band  was  a-playin',  but  I  didn't  pay  much 
attention  to  it.  I  kept  a-watchin'  that  slim,  little 
figger  a-settin*  next  Simpson — a-watchin'  till  I 
plumb  fergot  where  I  was,  almost.  "  Macie, — 
Macie  Sewell." 

Just  then,  I'm  another  if  she  didn't  look  round ! 
And  square  at  me!  She  wasn't  smilin',  just  sober, 
and  sorta  inquirin'.  Her  eyes  looked  dark,  and 
big.  She  had  a  square  little  chin,  like  the  gals  you 
see  drawed  in  pictures,  and  some  soft,  white,  lacey 
stuff  was  a-restin'  agin  her  neck.  They  was  two 
Jr  three  good-lookin'  gals  at  the  eatin' -house 
them  days,  and  Carlota  Arnaz  was  awful  pretty, 
too.  But  none  of  'em  couldn't  hole  a  candle  t' 
this  one.  Took  in  her  cute  little  face  whilst  she 
looked  straight  back  at  me.  Say!  them  eyes  of 
hern  come  nigh  pullin'  me  plumb  outen  that 
winda ! 

Then  the  Judge  walked  out  onto  the  platform, 
and  she  faced  for'ards  again.  "  Ladies  and 
gents,"  says  the  ole  feller,  talkin'  like  his  mouth 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  57 

was  full  of  mush,  "  we  have  come  to  give  you' 
enterprisin'  little  city  a  free  show.  A  free  show, 
ladies  and  gents, — it  ain't  a-goin'  to  cost  you  a 
nickel  to  come  here  and  enjoy  you'self  ev'ry 
night.  More'n  that,  we  plan  to  stay  as  long  as 
you  want  us  to.  And  we  plan  to  give  you  the  very 
best  talent  in  this  hull  United  States." 

All  this  time,  the  fancy- vest  fellers  was  layin'  a 
carpet  and  fixin'  a  box  and  a  table  on  the  stage. 
The  Judge,  he  turned  and  waved  his  hand.  "  Our 
first  number,"  he  says,  "  will  be  the  Murrays  in 
they  marvellous  act." 

Wai,  them  fancy-vests  and  the  lady  was  the 
Marvellous  Murrays.  And  they  was  all  in  pink 
circus-clothes.  "  Two  brothers  and  a  sister,  I 
guess,"  says  Hairoil.  I  should  hope  so!  'Cause 
the  way  they  jerked  each  other  'round  was  enough 
t'  bring  on  a  fight  if  they  hadn't  'a'  been  relations. 
All  three  of  'em  could  walk  on  they  hands  nigh 
as  good  as  on  they  feet,  and  turn  somersets  quick- 
er'n  lightnin'.  And  when  the  somersettin'  and 
leap-froggin'  come  to  oncet,  it  was  grand!  First 
the  big  feller'd  git  down;  then,  the  other'd  step 
onto  his  back.  And  as  the  big  one  bucked,  his 
brother'd  fly  up, — all  in  a  ball,  kinda — spin 


58  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

'round  two  'r  three  times,  and  light  right  side  up. 
And  then  they  stood  on  each  other's  faces  like 
they'd  plumb  flat  'em  out ! 

When  they  was  done,  they  all  come  to  the  edge 
of  the  platform,  the  lady  kissin'  her  hand.  All  the 
punchers  kissed  back! 

Wai,  ev'rybody  laughed  then,  and  clapped, 
and  the  Judge  brought  on  the  Injun.  That  Injun 
was  smart,  all  right.  Wiggled  his  fingers  behind 
a  sheet  and  made  'em  look  like  animals,  and  like 
people  that  was  walkin1  and  bowin'  and  doin' 
jigs.  I  wondered  if  Macie  Sewell  liked  it.  Guess 
she  did !  She  was  a-smilin'  and  leanin'  f  or'ards  to 
whisper  to  Billy  and  Rose.  But  not  much  to 
Simpson,  I  thought.  Say!  I  was  glad  of  that. 
Wasn't  none  of  my  business,  a-course.  Course, 
it  wasn't.  But,  just  the  same,  whenever  I  seen 
him  put  his  haid  clost  to  hern,  it  shore  got  under 
my  skin. 

The  Judge  was  out  again.  "Miss  Vera  de 
Mille,"  he  says,  "  will  sing  *  Wait  TiU  the  Sun 
Shines,  Maggie/  "  Wai,  if  I  hadn't  'a'  had  rea- 
sons fer  stayin',  I  wouldn't  'a'  waited  a  minute — 
reg'lar  cow-bellerin'  in  place  of  a  voice,  y'  savvy. 
What's  more,  she  was  only  that  Marvellous  Mur- 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  59 

ray  woman  in  difF'rent  clothes !  (No  wonder  they 
wasn't  no  more  people  in  that  outfit!)  But  I 
didn't  keer  about  the  show.  I  just  never  took  my 
eyes  ofFen 

She  looked  my  way  again ! 

Say !  I  was  roped — right  'round  my  shoulders, 
like  I'd  roped  Simpson!  And  I  was  plumb  help- 
less. That  look  of  hern  was  a  lasso,  pullin'  me  to 
her,  steady  and  shore.  "  Macie — Made  Sewell," 
I  whispered  to  myself,  and  I  reckon  my  lips 
moved. 

'  You  blamed  id  jit!  "  says  Hairoil,  out  loud  al- 
most, "  what's  the  matter  with  you?  You'll  have 
me  outen  this  winda  in  a  minute!  " 

The  Judge  was  bowin'  some  more.  "  We  have 
now  come  to  the  middle  of  our  program"  he  says. 
"  But  'fore  I  begin  announcin'  the  last  half,  which 
is  our  best,  I  want  to  tell  you  all  a  story. 

"  Ladies  and  gents,  I  come  t'  Briggs  to  bring 
you  a  message — a  message  which  I  feel  bound  to 
deliver.  And  I've  gone  through  a  turrible  lot  to 
be  able  to  stand  here  to-night  and  say  to  you  what 
I'm  a-goin'  to  say. 

"Listen!  Years  ago,  a  little  boy,  about  so 
high,  with  his  father  and  mother  and  'leven  sis- 


60  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

ters  and  brothers,  started  to  cross  the  Plains  with 
a*  ox-team.  They  reached  the  Blackfoot  country 
safe.  But  there,  ladies  and  gents,  a  turrible  thing 
happened  to  'em.  One  day,  more'n  four  hunderd 
Injuns  surrounded  they  wagon  and  showed  fight. 
They  fit  'em  back,  ladies  and  gents, — the  father 
and  the  mother  and  the  childern,  killin'  a  good 
many  bucks  and  woundin'  more.  But  the  Injuns 
was  too  many  fer  that  pore  fambly.  And  in  a* 
hour,  the  reds  had  captured  one  little  boy — whilst 
the  father  and  mother  and  the  'leven  sisters  and 
brothers  was  no  more!  "  (The  Judge,  he  sniffled 
a  little  bit.)' 

:'  The  little  boy  was  carried  to  a  big  Injun 
camp,"  he  goes  on.  "  And  it  was  here,  ladies  and 
gents, — it  was  here  he  seen  won-derful  things. 
He  seen  them  Injuns  that  was  wounded  put  some 
salve  on  they  wounds  and  be  healed ;  he  seen  oth- 
ers, that  was  plumb  tuckered  with  fightin',  drink 
a  blackish  medicine  and  git  up  like  new  men. 
Natu'lly,  he  wondered  what  was  in  that  salve, 
and  what  was  in  that  medicine.  Wai,  he  made 
friends  with  a  nice  Injun  boy.  He  ast  him  ques- 
tions about  that  salve  and  that  medicine.  He 
learnt  what  plants  was  dug  to  make  both  of 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  61 

'em.  Then,  one  dark  night,  he  crawled  outen  his 
wigwam  on  his  hands  and  knees.  Behind  him 
come  his  little  Injun  friend.  They  went  slow  and 
soft  to  where  was  the  pony  herd.  They  caught 
up  two  fast  ponies,  and  clumb  onto  'em,  dug  in 
they  spurs,  and  started  eastwards  as  fast  as  they 
could  go.  The  white  boy's  heart  was  filled  with 
|joy,  ladies  and  gents.  He  had  a  secret  in  his 
bosom  that  meant  health  to  ev'ry  man,  woman  and 
child  of  his  own  race.  As  he  galloped  along,  he 
says  to  hisself,  '  I'll  spend  my  life  givin'  this 
priceless  secret  to  the  world ! ' 

"  Wai,  ladies  and  gents,  that's  what  he  begun 
to  do — straight  off.  And  t'-night,  my  dear 
friends,  that  boy  is  in  Briggs  City! "  (A-course, 
ev'rybody  begun  to  look  'round  fer  him.)  "  Prob- 
'bly,"  goes  on  the  Judge,  "  they's  more'n  a  hun- 
derd  people  in  this  town  that'll  thank  Providence 
he  come :  They's  little  children  that  won't  be  or- 
phans ;  they's  wives  that  won't  be  widdas.  Fer  he 
is  anxious  to  tell  'em  of  a  remedy  that  will  cure 
a-a-all  the  ills  of  the  body.  And,  ladies  and  gents, 
/ — am — that — boy ! " 

That  got  the  punchers  so  excited  and  so  tickled, 
that  they  hollered  and  stamped  and  banged  and 


the  hall. 

"  My  friends,"  goes  on  the  Judge,  "  I  have 
prepared,  aided  by  my  dear  Injun  comrade  here, 
the  sev'ral  kinds  of  medicines  discovered  by  the 
DBlackfeet."  The  fancy-vests,  rigged  out  like 
Irishmen,  was  fixin'  a  table  and  puttin'  bottles  on 
to  it.  "  I  have  these  wonderful  medicines  with  me, 
and  I  sell  'em  at  a  figger  that  leaves  only  profit 
enough  f  er  the  five  of  us  to  live  on.  I  do  more'n 
that.  Ev'rywheres  I  go,  I  present,  as  a  soovneer 
of  my  visit,  a  handsome,  solid-gold  watch  and 
chain" 

Out  come  that  singin'  lady,  holdin'  the  watch 
and  chain  in  front  of  her  so's  the  crowd  could  see. 
My!  what  a  lot  of  whisperin'! 

"  This  elegant  gift,"  continues  the  Judge,  "  is 
awarded  by  means  of  a  votin'  contest.  And  it  goes 
to  the  prettiest  gal." 

More  whisperin',  and  I  seen  a  brakeman  git  up 
and  go  over  to  talk  to  another  railroad  feller. 
Wai,  /  didn't  have  to  be  tole  who  was  the  pretti- 
est gal! 

"Ladies  and  gents," — the  Judge  again — "in 
this  contest,  everybody  is  allowed  to  vote.  All  a 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  63 

person  has  to  do  is  to  take  two  dollars'  worth  of 
my  medicine.  Each  two-dollar  buy  gives  you  ten 
votes  fer  the  prettiest  gal;  and  just  to  add  a  little 
fun  to  the  contest,  it  also  gives  you  ten  votes  fer 
the  homeliest  man.  If  you  buy  these  medicines, 
you'll  never  want  to  buy  no  others.  Here's  where 
you  git  the  Blackfoot  Injun  Rootee,  my  friends, 
the  Pain  Balm,  the  Cough  Balsam,  the  Magic 
Salve,  and  the  Worm  Destroyer — the  fi-i-ive  rem- 
edies fer  two  dollars !  " 

Then  he  drawed  a  good,  long  breath  and  begun 
again,  tellin'  us  just  what  the  diff'rent  medicines 
was  good  fer.  When  he  was  done,  he  says, — 
playin'  patty-cake  with  them  fat  hands  of  hisn — 
"  Now,  who'll  be  the  first  to  buy,  and  name  a 
choice  fer  the  prettiest  gal?  " 

Up  jumps  that  brakeman,  "  Gimme  two  dol- 
lars' worth  of  you'  dope,"  he  says,  "  and  drop  ten 
votes  in  the  box  fer  Miss  Mollie  Brown." 

(Eatin' -house  waitress,  y*  savvy.) 

"  And  the  ugliest  man? "  ast  the  Judge,  whilst 
one  of  the  fancy  vests  took  in  the  cash  and  handed 
over  the  medicine. 

"  Monkey  Mike,"  answers  the  brakeman.  And 
then  the  boys  began  t'  josh  Mike. 


64  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

"  I'm  a  sucker,  too,"  hollers  the  other  rail- 
road feller.  "  Here's  ten  more  votes  f er  Miss 
Brown." 

Just  then,  in  she  come, — pompydore  stickin' 
up  like  a  hay-stack.  The  railroad  bunch,  they  give 
a  cheer.  Huh! 

I  got  outen  that  winda  and  onto  my  feet. 
"  Judge,"  I  calls,  puttin'  up  one  hand  to  show  him 
who  was  a-talkin',  "  here's  eight  dollars  f  er  you* 
rat-pizen.  And  you  can  chalk  down  forty  votes 
fer  Miss  Macie  Sewell." 

Say!  cain't  you  hear  them  Bar  Y  punchers? — 
ff  Yip!  yip!  yip!  yip!  yip!  yip!  ye-e-e! "  A-course 
all  the  other  punchers,  they  hollered,  too.  And 
whilst  we  was  yellin',  that  tenderfoot  from  Noo 
York  was  a-jabberin'  to  Macie,  mad  like,  and 
scowlin'  over  my  way.  And  she?  Wai,  she  was 
laughin',  and  blushin',  and  shakin'  that  pretty 
haid  of  hern — at  me! 

I  was  so  &rcited  I  didn't  know  whether  I  was 
a-foot  'r  a-hoss-back.  But  I  knowed  enough  to 
buyf  all  right.  Wai,  that  medicine  went  like  hot- 
cakes  !  I  bio  wed  myself ,  and  Hairoil  bio  wed  My- 
self, and  the  Bar  Y  boys  cleaned  they  pockets  till 
the  bottles  was  piled  up  knee-high  byside  the 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  65 

benches.  And  whilst  we  shelled  out,  the  Judge 
kept  on.  a-goin'  like  he'd  been  wound  up — 
"  Here's  another  feller  that  wants  Root-eel  and 
here's  another  over  on  this  side!  And,  lady,  it'll 
be  good  fer  you,  too,  yas,  ma'am.  The  Blackfoot1 
Injun  Rootee,  my  friends,  the  Pain  Balm,  the 
iCough  Balsam,  the  Magic  Salve,  and  the  Worm 
Destroyer, — the  fi-i-ive  remedies  fer  two  dol- 
lars!" 

When  I  come  to,  a  little  bit  later  on,  the  hall 
was  just  about  empty,  and  Hairoil  was  pullin'  me 
by  the  arm  to  git  me  to  move.  I  looked  'round  fer 
Macie  Sewell.  She  was  gone,  and  so  was  the 
Doc  and  Billy  Trowbridge  and  Rose  and  Up- 
State.  Outside,  right  under  my  window,  I 
ketched  sight  of  a  white  dress  a-goin'  past.  It 
was  her.  "  Macie,"  I  whispers  to  myself;  "  Macie 
Sewell." 

That  night,  I  couldn't  sleep.  I  was  upset 
kinda,  and  just  crazy  with  thinkin'  how  I'd  help 
her  to  win  out.  And  I  made  up  my  mind  t'  this : 
If  more  votes  come  in  fer  Mollie  Brown  than  they 
did  fer  the  gal  that  oughta  have  'em,  why,  I'd 
just  shove  a  gun  under  that  Judge's  nose  and  tell 
him  to  "  count  'em  over  and  count  3em  right." 


66  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

'Cause,  I  figgered,  no  eatin'-house  gal  with  a  face 
like  a  flat-car  was  a-goin'  to  be  elected  the  pretti- 
est gal  of  Briggs.  Not  if  I  seen  myself,  no, 
ma'am.  'Specially  not  whilst  SewalTs  little  gal 
was  in  the  country.  Anybody  could  pick  her  fer 
the  winner  if  they  had  on  blinders.  "  Cupid,"  I 
says,  "  you  hump  you'self ! " 

Next  day,  the  Judge,  he  give  consultin's  in  the 
eatin'-house  sample-room.  I  went  over  and  had 
a  talk  with  him,  tellin'  him  just  how  I  wanted  that 
votin'  contest  to  go.  He  said  he  wisht  me  luck, 
but  that  if  the  railroad  boys  felt  they  needed  his 
medicine,  he  didn't  believe  he  had  no  right  to  keep 
'em  from  buyin'.  And,  a-course,  when  a  feller 
made  a  buy,  he  wanted  t'  vote  like  he  pleased. 
Said  the  best  thing  was  t'  git  holt  of  folks  that  'd 
met  Miss  Sewell  and  liked  her,  'r  wanted  t'  work 
fer  her  ole  man,  'r  'd  just  as  lief  do  me  a  good 
turn. 

I  hunted  up  Billy.  "  Doc,"  I  says,  "  I  hope 
Briggs  ain't  a-goin'  to  name  that  Brown  waitress 
fer  its  best  sample.  Now ' 

"  Aw,  wal,"  says  Billy,  "  think  how  it  'd  tickle 
her!" 

"  Tickle  some  other  gal  just  as  much,"  I  says. 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  67 

"And  the  prettiest  gal  ought  to  be  choosed. 
Now,  it  could  be  fixed — easy." 

"  Who  do  you  think  it  oughta  be? "  ast  Billy. 

"  Strikes  me  you'  wife's  little  sister  is  the  pick." 

"  Cupid,"  says  Billy,  lookin'  anxious  like, 
"don't  you  git  you'self  too  much  interested  in 
Macie  Sewell.  You  know  how  the  ole  man  feels 
towards  you.  And  what  can  I  do?  He  ain't  any; 
too  friendly  with  me  yet?  So  be  keerful." 

"Now,  Doc,"  I  goes  on,  "don't  you  go  to 
worryin'  about  me.  Just  you  help  by  prescribin' 
that  medicine" 

"To  folks  that  don't  need  none?"  ast  Billy. 
"  Aw,  I  don't  like  to."  ( Billy's  awful  white,  Bill^ 
is.)  "  It  won't  do  'em  no  good." 

"  Wai,"  I  says,  "  it  won't  do  'em  no  harm/' 

Billy  said  he'd  see. 

"  You  could  let  it  out  that  somebody  in  town's 
been  cured  by  the  stuff,"  I  suggests. 

"  Only  make  them  railroad  fellers  buy  more."" 

"  That's  so.  Wai,  I  guess  the  best  thing  f  er  me 
to  do  is  to  hunt  up  people  with  a  misery  and  tell 
'em  they'd  better  buy — and  vote  my  way." 

Billy  throwed  back  his  haid  and  haw-hawed. 
"  You're  a  dickens  of  a  feller! "  he  says.  "  When 


68  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

you  want  to  have  you'  own  way,  I  never  seen  any- 
body  that  could  think  up  more  gol-darned 
.things." 

"  And,"  I  continues,  "  if  that  Root-ee  just  had 
a  lot  of  forty-rod  mixed  in  it,  it  'd  be  easier'n  all 
git  out  to  talk  fellers  into  takin'  it.  If  they'd 
try  one  bottle,  they'd  shore  take  another.'3 

"  Now,  Cupid,"  says  Billy,  like  he  was  goin'  to 
scolt  me. 

"  'R  if  cle  man  Baker  'd  take  the  stuff  and  git 
his  hearin'  back." 

"  No  show.  Nothin'  but  sproutin'  a  new  ear'd 
help  Baker." 

Next  person  I  seen  was  that  Doc  Simpson. 
He  was  a-settin'  on  Silverstein's  porch,  teeterin* 
hisself  in  a  chair.  "  Billy,"  I  says,  "  I'm  goin' 
over  to  put  that  critter  up  to  buyin'.  He's  got 
money  and  he  cain't  do  better'n  spend  it." 

Wai,  a-course,  Simpson  was  tumble  uppy 
when  I  first  spoke  to  him.  Said  he  didn't  want 
nothin'  t'  say  to  me — not  a  word.  (He  had  sev'ral 
risin's  on  his  face  yet.) 

,*  "Wai,  Doc,"  I  says,  "I  know  you  think  I 
didn't  treat  you  square,  but — has  you  city  fellers 
any  idear  how  mad  you  make  us  folks  in  the 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  69 

country  when  you  go  a-shootin'  'round  in  them 
gasoline  rigs  of  yourn?  Why,  I  think  if  you'll 
give  this  question  some  little  study,  you'll  see  it 
has  got  two  sides." 

'  Yas,"  says  the  Doc,  "  it  has.  But  that  ain't 
why  you  treated  me  like  you  did.  No,  I  ain't 
green  enough  to  think  that/' 

"You  ain't  green  at  all"  I  says.  "And  I'm 
shore  sorry  you  feel  the  way  you  do.  'Cause  I 
hoped  mebbe  you'd  fergit  our  little  trouble  and 
bury  the  hatchet — long  as  we're  both  workin'  f  er 
the  same  thing." 

"  What  thing,  I'd  like  t'  know?  " 

;<  Why,  gittin'  Miss  Macie  Sewell  elected  the 
prettiest  gal." 

Fer  a  bit  he  didn't  say  nothin'.  Then  he  made 
some  remark  about  a  gal's  name  bein'  "  handed 
'round  town,"  and  that  a  votin'  contest  was  "  vul- 
gar." 

Wai,  he  put  it  so  slick  that  I  didn't  just  git  the 
hang  of  what  he  was  drivin'  at.  Just  the  same,  I 
felt  he  was  layin'  it  on  to  me,  somehow.  And  if 
I'd  'a*  been  shore  of  it,  I'd  'a'  put  some  more 
risin's  on  to  his  face. 

Wisht   now    I    had — on    gen'ral   principles. 


70  'Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

'Cause,  thinkin'  back,  I  know  just  what  he  done. 
If  he  didn't,  why  was  him  and  that  Root-ee 
Judge  talkin'  t'gether  so  long  at  the  door  of  Sil- 
verstein's  Hall — talkin'  like  they  was  thick,  and 
laughin',  and  ev'ry  oncet  in  a  while  lookin'  over 
at  me? 

I  drummed  up  a  lot  of  votes  that  afternoon. 
Got  holt  of  Buckshot  Milliken,  who  wasn't  feelin' 
more'n  ordinary  good.  Ast  him  how  he  was.  He 
put  his  hand  to  his  belt,  screwed  up  his  mug,  and 
said  he  felt  plumb  et  up  inside. 

"  Buckshot,"  I  says,  "  anybody  else  'd  give  you 
that  ole  sickenin'  story  about  it  bein'  the  nose- 
paint  you  swallered  last  night.  Reckon  you* 
wife's  tole  you  that  a'ready." 

;'  That's  what  she  has,"  growls  Buckshot. 

"  Wai,  I  knowed  it!  But  is  she  right?  Now,  I 
think,  Buckshot, — I  think  you've  got  the  blig- 
gers."  (Made  it  up  on  the  spot.) 

"  The  bliggers!  "  he  says,  turrible  scairt-like. 

"  That's  what  I  think.  But  all  you  need  is  that 
Root-ee  they  sell  over  yonder." 

He  perked  up.  "  Shore  of  it? "  he  ast. 

"  Buy  a  bottle  and  try.  And  leave  off  drinkin* 
anythin'  else  whilst  you're  takin'  the  stuff,  so's  it 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  71 

can  have  a  fair  chanst.  In  a  week,  you'll  be  a  new 
man." 

"  I'll  do  it,"  he  says,  makin'  fer  that  prairie- 
schooner. 

I  calls  after  him:  "And  say,  Buckshot,  ev'ry 
two  dollars  you  spend  with  them  people,  you  git 
the  right  to  put  in  ten  votes  fer  the  prettiest  gal. 
Now,  most  of  us  is  votin'  fer  ole  man  SewelPs 
youngest  daughter."  Then,  like  I  was  tryin'  hard 
to  recollect,  "  I  think  her  name  is  Macie." 

"  All  right,  Cupid.  So  long." 

Seen  Sewell  a  little  bit  later.  And  braced  right 
up  to  him.  'Cause  fer  two  reasons:  First,  I 
wanted  him  t'  do  some  buyin'  fer  his  gal ;  then,  I 
wanted  t'  find  out  if  he  didn't  need  another 
puncher  out  at  the  Bar  Y.  ( Ketch  on  t'  my  little 
game?) 

The  ole  man  was  pretty  short,  and  wouldn't  do 
a  livin'  lick  about  them  votes.  Said  he  knowed 
his  gal,  Mace,  was  the  prettiest  gal  in  Okla- 
homaw,  and  it  didn't  need  no  passel  of  breeds  'r 
quacks  to  cut  her  out  of  the  bunch  of  heifers  and 
give  her  the  brand. 

Then,  I  says,  "  S'pose  you  ain't  lookin*  fer  no 
extra  punchers  out  at  the  Bar  Y?  I'm  thinkin' 


72  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

some  of  quittin'  where  I  am."  ('Twixt  you  and 
me  and  the  gate-post,  I  knowed  from  Hairoil 
that  the  Sewell  outfit  was  shy;  two  men — just 
when  men  was  wanted  bad. 

Fer  a  minute,  Sewell  didn't  answer  anothin'. 
[(Stiff-necked,  y'  savvy, — see  a  feller  dead  first 
'fore  he'd  give  in  a'  inch.)  Pretty  sodn,  he  looked 
up,  kinda  sheepish.  "  I  could  use  another  punch- 
er," he  says,  "  t'  ride  line.  Forty  suit  y'? " 

"  Shore,  boss.  Be  out  the  first.  So  long." 

I  was  goin'  to  the  Bar  Y,  where  she  was !  Wai, 
mebbe  I  wasn't  happy!  And  mebbe  I  wasn't  set 
worse'n  ever  on  havin'  the  little  gal  win  in  that 
contest!  'Fore  night,  I  rounded  up  as  many  as 
five  people  that  had  a  bony  fido  grunt  comin',  and 
was  glad  to  hear  the  grand  things  Doc  Trow- 
bridge  said  about  Root-ee ! 

When  the  show  started  up  in  the  hall  after  sup- 
per, and  I  slid  in  to  take  my  seat  in  the  winda,  a 
lot  of  people, — women  and  kids  and  men — kinda 
turned  round  towards  me  and  whispered  and 
grinned.  "  They  know  I'm  fer  Macie  Sewell,"  I 
says  to  myself,  "  but  that  don't  bother  me  none." 

That  Blackfoot  Injun  (he  was  turned  into 
,To-Ko,  the  Human  Snake)'  was  a-throwin' 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  73 

squaw-hitches  with  hisself.  The  Judge  come  to 
the  edge  of  the  platform  and  pointed  over  his 
shoulder  to  him.  "  Do  you  think  he  could  do  that 
if  he  didn't  rub  his  hinges  with  Pain  Balm?  "  he 
says.  "Wai,  he  couldn't.  Pain  Balm  makes  a 
man  as  limber  as  a  willa.  Ladies  and  gents,  it's 
wowierful  what  that  remedy  can  do!  It'll  pro- 
long you'  life,  make  you  healthy,  wealthy,  happy, 
and  wise.  Here  you  get  the  Blackfoot  Injun 
Root-ee,  the  Pain  Balm,  the  Cough  Balsam,  the 
Magic  Salve,  and  the  Worm  Destroyer, — the 
fi-i-ive  remedies  f  er  two  dollars !  " 

Say!  it  made  my  jaw  plumb  tired  t'  listen  to 
him. 

"  Hairoil,"  I  says  to  Johnson,  "  they  got  the 
names  of  the  prettiest  gals  up  on  the  blackboard, 
but  where's  the  names  of  the  homeliest  men  ?  " 

Hairoil  snickered  a  little.  Then  he  pulled  his 
face  straight  and  said  that,  bein'  as  Monkey  Mike 
'd  kicked  up  a  tumble  fuss  about  the  votes  that 
was  cast  f  er  him,  why,  the  Judge  had  decided  to 
keep  the  homeliest-man  contest  a  secret. 

Wai,  I  didn't  keer.  Was  only  a-botherin'  my 
haid  over  the  way  the  prettiest  gal  countin'  'd 
come  out.  I  got  holt  of  Dutchy,  who  'd  come  in 


74  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

from  his  thirst-parlour  to  look  on  a  minute. 
"  Buyin',  Dutchy  ?  "  I  ast. 

"Nix." 

"  But  I  reckon  you  need  Root-ee,  all  the  same. 
Do  you  ever  feel  kinda  full  and  stuffy  after 
meals?" 

"  Yaw." 

"Now,  don't  that  show!  Dutchy,  I'm  sorry, 
but  it's  a  cinch  you  got  the  bliggers !  " 

Wai,  he  bit. 

The  station-agent  was  standin'  right  next  me. 
"  Cupid,"  he  whispers,  "  I  hear  you  got  a  candi- 
date  in  fer  the  prettiest  gal.  What  you  say  about 
runnin'  as  the  homeliest  man?  " 

"  No,"  I  answers,  quick,  "  I  don't  hanker  fer 
the  honour.  (That  'd  hurt  me  with  her,  y* 
savvy.)  Then,  I  begun  chinnin'  with  Sparks,  that 
owns  the  corral. 

"  Great  stuff,  that  Root-ee,"  I  says.  "  Reckon 
the  redskins  knowed  a  heap  more  about  curin' 
than  anybody's  ever  give  'em  credit  fer.  Tried 
the  medicine  yet,  Sparks?  " 

Sparks  said  no,  he  didn't  think  he  needed  it. 

"  Wai,  a  man  never  knows,"  I  goes  on.  "  Now, 
mebbe,  of  a  mornin',  when  you  wake  up,  you  feel 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  75 

tired  and  sorta  stretchy;  wisht  you  could  just  roll 
over  and  take  another  snooze." 

"Bet  I  do!" 

"  That  ain't  right,  Sparks."  And  I  turned  in 
and  give  him  that  bliggers  talk. 

But  he  hung  off  till  I  tole  him  about  the  scheme 
of  the  railroad  bunch.  Seems  that  Sparks  had  a 
grudge  agin  the  eatin'  -house  'cause  it  wouldn't 
give  him  train-men's  rates  fer  grub.  So  he  fell 
right  into  line. 

Macie  Sewell  didn't  come  to  the  show  that 
night,  so  I  didn't  stay  long.  Over  to  the  bunk- 
house,  I  got  a  piece  of  paper  and  some  ink  and 
(ain't  ashamed  of  it,  neither,)  writ  down  her 
name.  Under  it,  I  put  mine.  Then,  after  crossin* 
out  all  the  letters  that  was  alike,  and  countin* 
"  Friendship,  love,  indiif'rence,  hate,  courtship, 
marriage,"  it  looked  like  this  : 


S/W///T       friendship. 
marriage. 


By  jingo,  I  reckon  it  stood  just  about  that  way! 

Next  mornin',  whilst  I  was  standin'  outside  the 

post-office,  she  come  ridin'  up!  Say,  all  to  oncet 


76  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

my  heart  got  to  goin'  somethin'  tumble — I  was 
feard  she'd  hear  it,  no  josh.  My  hands  felt  weak, 
too,  so's  I  could  hardly  pull  off  my  Stetson;  and 
my  ears  got  red;  and  my  tongue  thick,  like  the 
time  I  got  off  en  the  trail  in  Arizonaw  and  din't 
have  no  water  fer  two  'r  three  days. 

She  seen  me,  and  smiled,  sorta  bashful. 

"  Miss  Sewell,"  I  says,  "  can  I  ast  fer  you* 
mail?  Then  you  won't  have  to  git  down." 

"Yas,  thank  yV 

When  I  give  it  to  her,  I  got  my  sand  back  a 
little.  "  I  hope,"  I  says,  "  that  you  didn't  mind 
my  puttin'  you'  name  up  in  that  votin'  contest,, 
Didy'?" 

"  Why— why,  no." 

"  I'm  awful  glad.  And  I'm  a-comin'  out  to  the 
Bar  Y  the  first  to  ride  line." 

"Are  y'?"  Them  pink  cheeks  of  hern  got 
pinker'n  ever,  and  when  she  loped  off,  she  smiled 
back  at  me ! 

Say!  I  never  was  so  happy  in  all  my  life!  I 
went  to  work  gittin'  votes  fer  her,  feelin'  like 
ev'rybody  was  my  friend — even  ole  Skinflint 
Curry,  that  I'd  had  words  with  oncet.  That  rail- 
road bunch  was  a-workin',  too,  and  a-talkin'  up 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  77 

•Mollie  Brown.  And  I  heerd  that  they  planned  to 
hole  back  a  lot  of  votes  till  Macie  Sewell's  count 
was  all  in,  and  then  spring  'em  to  elect  the  other 
gal.  That  got  me  worried  some. 

About  six  o'clock,  one  of  them  fancy  vests  went 
'round  town,  hollerin'  it  out  that  the  show  'd  give 
its  last  preformance  that  night.  "  What's  you 
Sweat  ? '  I  ast  him.  Nothin',  he  says,  only  the 
Judge  reckoned  about  all  the  folks  that  intended 
to  buy  Root-ee  had  bought  a'ready. 

Wai,  the  show  got  a  turrible  big  crowd — hall 
chuch  full.  And  I  tell  y'  things  was  livelier'n  they 
was  at  the  dawg  fight.  The  Mollie  Brown  crowd 
was  rushin'  'round  and  lookin'  corkin'  shore,  and 
the  punchers  holdin'  up  people  as  they  come  in, 
and  the  Marvellous  Murray's  doin'  anty-I-overs 
with  theyselves  plumb  acrosst  the  stage. 

All  the  time,  the  Judge  was  exercisin'  that  jaw 
of  hisn.  "  Ladies  and  gents,"  he  says,  (banjo 
goin'  ev'ry  minute)  "  here's  where  you  git  cured 
whilst  you  stand — like  buffalo  grass.  Don't  you 
be  scairt  that  you'll  buy  me  out — I  got  more  down 
cellar  in  a  teacup !  " 

Then  she  come  in,  and  I  wouldn't  'a'  pulled 
outen  that  place  fer  a  new  dollar.  She  looked  so 


78  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

cool  and  pretty,  that  little  haid  up,  and  a  wisp  of 
hair  blowin'  agin  her  one  cheek  'cause  they  was  a 
breeze  from  the  windas.  Simpson  was  with  her. 
What  did  I  keer!  She  wasn't  noticin'  him  much. 
Wai,  I  just  never  looked  anywheres  else  but  at 
her.  Aw,  I  hoped  that  pretty  soon  she'd  look 
round  at  me ! 

She  did! — straighter'n  a  string.  And  the  hull 
room  got  as  misty  and  full  of  roarin'  as  if  a  Santa 
Fee  ingine  was  in  there,  a-leakin'  steam.  I  tried 
t'  smile  at  her.  But  my  face  seemed  hard,  like  a 
piece  of  leather.  I  couldn't  smile. 

Then,  my  eyes  cleared.  And  I  seen  she  was 
sad,  like  as  if  somethin'  was  botherin'  her  mind. 
"  She  thinks  she's  a-goin'  t'  git  beat,"  I  says  to 
myself.  "  But  she  ain't."  And  I  reached  down  to 
see  if  my  pop-gun  was  all  right. 

She  turned  back  towards  the  stage.  The  Mur- 
ray woman  'd  just  finished  one  of  them  songs  of 
hern,  and  the  Judge  was  talkin'  again.  "  Ladies 
and  gents,"  he  says,  "  we  shall  not  drag  out  our 
program  too  long.  Fer  the  reason  that  I  know 
just  what  you-all  want  to  hear  most.  And  that  is, 
the  result  of  the  contest." 

That  railroad  gang  begun  t'  holler. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  79 

Don't  know  why, — wasn't  no  reason  f er  it,  but 
my  heart  went  plumb  down  into  my  boots.  "  Aw, 
little  Macie!"  I  says  to  myself;  "aw,  little  Ma- 
cie!  "  Say!  I  come  mighty  nigh  prayin'  over  it! 

'  The  count  fer  the  prettiest  gal,"  goes  on  the 
Judge,  "  is  complete.  Miss  de  Mille,  kindly  bring 
for'ard  the  watch.  I  shall  have  to  ast  some  gent 
to  escort  the  fortunate  young  lady  to  the  plat- 
form." (I  seen  a  brakeman  start  over  to  Mollie 
Brown. ) 

"  I  don't  intend  " — the  Judge  again — "  to  keep 
you  in  suspenders  no  longer.  And  I  reckon  you'll 
all  be  glad  to  know  "  (here  he  give  a  bow)  "  that 
the  winner  is — Miss  Macie  Sewell." 

Wai,  us  punchers  let  out  a  yell  that  plumb 
cracked  the  ceiling.  "Wow!  wow!  wow!  Macie 
Sewell!  "  And  we  whistled,  and  kicked  the  floor, 
and  banged  the  benches,  and  whooped. 

Doctor  Bugs  got  to  his  feet,  puttin'  his  stylish 
hat  and  gloves  on  his  chair,  and  crookin'  a'  elbow. 
Wai,  I  reckon  this  part  wasn't  vulgar ! 

Then,  she  stood  up,  took  holt  of  his  arm,  and 
stepped  out  into  the  aisle.  She  was  smilin'  a  little, 
but  kinda  sober  yet,  I  thought.  She  went  towards 
the  Judge  slow,  and  up  the  steps.  He  belt  out  his 


80  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

hand.  "  With  the  compliments  of  the  company," 
he  says.  She  took  the  watch.  Then  she  turned. 

Another  cheer — a  whopper. 

She  stood  there,  lookin'  like  a'  angel,  'r  a  bird, 
'r  a  little  bobbin'  rose. 

"  Thank  y',  boys,"  she  says;  "  thank  y'." 

If  I'd  'a'  knowed  what  was  a-goin'  to  happen 
next,  I'd  'a'  slid  out  then.  But,  a-course,  I  didn't. 

"  My  friends,"  says  the  Judge,  "  I  will  now 
read  the  vote  for  the  homeliest  man.  Monkey 
Mike  received  the  large  count  of  twenty.  But  it 
stands  nineteen  hunderd  and,  sixty  fer — Cupid 
Lloyd." 

All  of  a  suddent  two  'r  three  fellers  had  holt  of 
me.  And  they  was  a  big  yell  went  up — "  Cupid! 
Cupid!  The  homeliest  man!  Whee!"  The  next 
second,  I  was  goin'  for'ards,  but  shovin'  back.  I 
hated  to  have  her  see  me  made  a  fool  of.  I  seen 
red,  I  was  so  mad.  I  could  'a'  kilt.  But  she  was 
lookin'  at  me,  and  I  was  as  helpless  as  a  little  cat. 
I  put  down  my  haid,  and  was  just  kinda  dragged 
up  the  aisle  and  onto  the  platform. 

She  went  down  the  steps  to  her  seat  then.  But 
she  didn't  stop.  She  bent  over,  picked  up  her 
jacket,  whispered  somethin'  to  Rose  and,  with 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  81 

that  Simpson  trailin',  went  to  the  back  of  the 
hall.  There  she  stopped,  kinda  half  turned,  and 
waited. 

I  wisht  fer  a  knot-hole  that  I  could  crawl 
through.  I  wisht  a  crack  in  the  floor  'd  open  and 
let  me  slip  down,  no  matter  if  I  tumbled  into  a 
barrel  of  molasses  below  in  Silverstein's.  I  wisht 
I  was  dead,  and  I  wisht  the  hull  blamed  bunch  of 
punchers  was —  Wai,  I  felt  something  tumble. 

"Cupid!"  "You  blamed  fool!"  "Look  at 
him,  boys!"  "Take  his  picture!"  "Say!  he's  a 
beauty !"  Then  they  hollered  like  they'd  bust  they 
sides,  and  stomped. 

I  laughed,  a-course, — sickish,  though. 

The  Judge,  I  reckon,  felt  kinda  'shamed  of 
hisself .  'Cause  I'd  helped  to  sell  a  heap  of  medi- 
cine, and  he  knowed  it.  "  That's  all  right,  Lloyd," 
he  says ;  "  they  ain't  no  present  fer  you.  You  can 
vamose — back  stairway." 

"  Whee-oop!  "  goes  the  boys. 

I  seen  her  start  down  then.  Billy  and  his  wife 
got  up,  too.  So  did  the  crowd,  still  a-laughin'  and 
a-hootin'. 

I  kinda  backed  a  bit.  When  I  reached  the 
stairs,  I  went  slower,  f eelin'  my  way.  Minute  and 


82  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

I  come  out  onto  Silverstein's  hind  porch.  No- 
body was  there,  so  I  went  over  to  the  edge  and 
lent  agin  a'  upright. 

Right  back  of  Silverstein's  they's  a  line  of 
hitchin'-posts.  Two  bosses  was  fastened  there 
when  I  come,  but  it  was  so  dark,  and  I  felt  so 
kinda  bad,  that  I  didn't  notice  the  broncs  parta'c- 
ular.  Till,  'round  the  corner,  towards  'em,  come 
that  Simpson.  Next,  walkin  '  slow  and  lookin' 
down — Macie. 

But  she  got  onto  her  boss  quick,  and  without  no 
help.  All  the  time,  Bugsey  was  a-fussin'  with  his 
mustang.  But  the  critter  was  nervous,  and  wasn't 
no  easy  job.  Macie  waited.  She  was  nighest  to 
me,  and  right  in  line  with  the  light  from  a  winda. 
I  could  see  her  face  plain.  But  I  couldn't  tell  how 
she  was  feelin', — put  out,  'r  quiet,  'r  just  kinda 
tired. 

Simpson  got  into  the  saddle  then,  his  boss 
rearin'  and  runnin'.  He  could  steer  a  gasoline 
wagon,  but  he  couldn't  handle  a  cayuse.  He 
turned  to  holler:  "  Comin',  Miss  Sewell?  " 

She  said  she  was,  but  she  started  awful  slow, 
and  kinda  peered  back,  and  up  to  the  hall.  At 
the  same  time,  she  must  'a'  saw  that  they  was  a 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  83 

man  on  the  back  porch,  'cause  she  pulled  in  a 
,  little,  lookin'  hard. 

I  felt  that  rope  a-drawin'  me  then.  I  couldn't 
'a'  kept  myself  from  goin'  to  her.  I  started  down. 
"  Miss  Macie !  "  I  says ;  "  Miss  Macie !  " 

"Why,— why,  Mister  Lloyd!"  She  wheeled 
her  hoss.  "  Is  that  you? " 

I  went  acrosst  the  yard  to  where  she  was. 
'  Yas, — it's  me,"  I  says. 

She  lent  down  towards  me  a  little.  "  You  been 
awful  good  to  me,"  she  says.  "I  know.  It  was 
you  got  all  them  votes.  Hairoil  said  so." 

"  Don't  mention  it." 

"  And — and  "  —I  heerd  her  breath  'way  deep, 
kinda  like  a  sob—  "  you  ain't  the  homeliest  man ! 
you  ain't!  Aw,  it  was  mean  of  'em!  And  it 
hurt " 

"  No,  it  didn't — please,  /  don't  mind." 

"  It  hurt— me." 

That  put  the  cheek  of  ten  men  into  me.  I 
straightened  up,  and  I  lifted  my  chin.  "  Why, 
Gawd  bless  you,  little  gal!"  I  says.  "It's  all 
right" 

Her  one  hand  was  a-restinj  on  the  pommel.  I 
reached  up — only  a  stay-chain  could  a'  belt  me 


84  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

back  then — and  took  it  into  both  of  mine.  Say! 
did  you  ever  holt  a  little,  flutterin'  bird  'twixt 
you'  two  palms? 

"Made,"  I  says,  "Macie  SewelL"  And  I 
pressed  her  hand  agin  my  face. 

She  lent  towards  me  again.  It  wasn't  more'n  a 
soft  breath,  and  I  could  hardly  hear.  But  nobody 
but  me  and  that  little  ole  bronc  of  hern'll  ever 
know  what  it  was  she  said. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

CONCERIN'    THE    SHERIFF    AND    ANOTHER 
LITTLE    WIDDA 

Aw!  them  first  days  out  at  the  Bar  Y  ranch- 
house! — them  first  days!  Nobody  could  'a'  been 
happier'n  I  was  then. 

I  hit  the  ranch  on  a  Friday,  about  six  in  the 
evenin',  it  was,  I  reckon, — in  time  fer  supper, 
anyhow.  The  punchers  et  in  a  room  acrosst  the 
kitchen  from  where  the  f ambly  et.  And  I  recol- 
lect that  sometimes  durin'  that  meal,  as  the  Chink 
come  outen  the  kitchen,  totin'  grub  to  us,  I  just 
could  ketch  sight  of  Macie's  haid  in  the  far  room, 
bobbin'  over  her  plate.  And  ev'ry  time  I'd  see 
her,  I'd  git  so  blamed  flustered  that  my  knife  'd 
miss  my  mouth  and  jab  me  in  the  jaw,  'r  else  I'd 
spill  somethin'  'r  other  on  to  Monkey  Mike. 

And  after  supper,  when  the  sun  was  down,  and 
they  was  just  a  kinda  half-light  on  the  mesquite, 
and  the  ole  man  was  on  the  east  porch,  smokin', 
and  the  boys  was  all  lined  up  along  the  front  of 

85 


86  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

the  bunk-house,  clean  outen  sight  of  the  far  side 
of  the  yard,  why,  I  just  sorta  wandered  over  to 
the  calf-corral,  then  'round  by  the  barn  and  the 
Chink's  shack,  and  landed  up  out  to  the  west, 
where  they's  a  row  of  cottonwoods  by  the  new  ir- 
rigatin'  ditch.  Beyond,  acrosst  about  a  hunderd 
mile  of  brown  plain,  here  was  the  moon  a-risin', 
bigger'n  a  dish-pan,  and  a  cold  white.  I  stood  agin 
a  tree  and  watched  it  crawl  through  the  clouds. 
The  frogs  was  a-watchin',  too,  I  reckon,  fer  they 
begun  to  holler  like  the  dickens,  some  bass  and 
some  squeaky.  And  then,  from  the  other  side  of 
the  ranch-house,  struck  up  a  mouth-organ : 

"Sweet  is  the  vale  where  the  Mohawk  gently 

glides 
On  its  fair,  windin3  way  to  the  sea " 

A  wait — ten  seconds  'r  so  (it  seemed  longer) ; 
then,  the  same  part  of  the  song,  over  again, 
and 

Outen  the  side  door  of  the  porch  next  me  come 
a  slim,  little  figger  in  white.  It  stepped  down 
where  some  sun-flowers  was  a-growin*  agin  the 
wall.  Say!  it  was  just  sunflower  high!  Then  it 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  87 

come  acrosst  the  alfalfa — like  a  butterfly.  And 
then- 

"  Don't  you  want  a  shawl  'round  you'  shoul- 
ders, honey?  It's  some  chilly." 

"  No."  (Did  you  ever  see  a  gal  that'd  own  up 
she  needed  a  wrap?) 

:<  Wai,  you  got  to  have  somethin'  'round  you." 
And  so  I  helt  her  clost,  and  put  my  hand  under 
her  chin  t'  tip  it  so's  I  could  see  her  face. 

'You  mustn't.  Alec!"  (She  was  allus  shy 
about  bein'  kissed.) 

"  I  tole  Mike  to  give  me  ten  minutes'  lee- way 
'fore  he  played  that  tune.  But  he  must  'a'  waited 
a  hull  hour."  And  then,  with  the  mouth-organ 
goin'  at  the  bunk-house  (f  keep  the  ole  man  lis- 
tenin',  y'  savvy,  and  make  him  fergit  t'  look  f er 
Mace) ,  we  rambled  north  byside  the  ditch,  holdin' 
each  other's  hand  as  we  walked,  like  two  kids. 
And  the  ole  moon,  it  smiled  down  on  us,  awful 
friendly  like,  and  we  smiled  back  at  the  moon. 

Wai,  when  we  figgered  that  Mike  'd  blowed 
hisself  plumb  outen  breath,  we  started  home 
again.  And  under  the  cottonwoods,  the  little 
gal  reached  up  her  two  arms  t'  me;  and  they 
wasn't  nothin'  but  love  in  them  sweet,  grey  eyes. 


88  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

'  You  ain't  never  liked  nobody  else,  honey?  " 
"No — just  you,  Alec! — dear  Alec!" 
"  Same  here,  Made, — and  this  is  fer  keeps." 
Wai,  'most  ev'ry  night  it  was  just  like  that. 
And  the  follerin'  day,  mehbe  I  wouldn't  know 
whether  I  was  a-straddle  of  a  hoss,  drivin' 
steers,  'r  a-straddle  of  a  steer,  drivin'  hosses. 
And  it's  a  blamed  good  thing  my  bronc  savvied 
how  t'  tend  to  business  without  me  doin'  much! 
Then,  mebbe,  I'd  be  ridin'  line.  Maud  'd  go 
weavin'  away  up  the  long  fence  that  leads  to- 
wards Kansas,  and  at  sundown  we'd  reach  the 
first  line-shack.  And  there,  with  the  little  bronc 
a-pickin',  and  my  coffee  a-coolin'  byside  me  on  a 
bench,  I'd  sit  out  under  the  sky  and  watch  the 
moon — alone.  Mebbe,  when  I  got  home,  it  'd 
be  ole  man  Sewell's  lodge-night,  so  he'd  start  fer 
town  'long  about  seven  o'clock,  and  Mace  and 
me  'd  have  the  porch  to  ourselves — the  side -porch, 
where  the  sun-flowers  growed.  But  the  next 
night,  we'd  meet  by  the  ditch  again,  and  the 
next,  and  the  next.  Aw!  them  first  happy  days 
at  the  ole  Bar  Y! 

And  I  reckon  it  was  just  'cause  we  was  so  tur- 
rible  happy  that  we  got  inter ested  in  Bergin's 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  89 

case — Mace  and  me  both.  (Next  t'  Hairoil, 
Bergin's  my  best  friend,  y'  savvy.)  Figgerin' 
on  how  t'  fix  things  up  fer  him — speakin'  mat- 
reemonal — brung  us  two  closter  t'gether,  and 
showed  me  what  a  dandy  little  pardner  she  was 
a-goin'  t'  make. 

But  I  want  t'  say  right  here  that  we  wasn't  re- 
sponsible fer  the  way  that  case  of  hisn  turned  out 
—and   neither   was    no   other   livin'   soul.  No, 
ma'am.  The  hull  happenstance  was  the  kind  that 
a  feller  cain't  &rplain. 

It  begun  when  I'd  been  out  at  the  Sewell 
ranch  about  two  weeks.  (I  disremember  the  ex- 
ac'  day,  but  that  don't  matter.)  I'd  rid  in  town 
fer  somethin',  and  was  a-crossin'  by  the  deepot 
t'  git  it,  when  I  ketched  sight  of  Bergin  a-settin' 
on  the  end  of  a  truck, — all  by  hisself.  Now, 
that  was  funny,  'cause  they  wasn't  a  man  in 
Briggs  City  but  liked  George  Bergin  and  would 
'a'  hoofed  it  a  mile  to  talk  to  him.  "What's 
skew-gee? "  I  says  to  myself,  and  looked  at  him 
clost;  then,— "  Caesar  Augustus  Philabustus 
Hennery  Jinks ! "  I  kinda  gasped,  and  brung 
up  so  suddent  that  I  bit  my  cigareet  clean  in  two 
and  come  nigh  turnin'  a  somerset  over  back'ards. 


90  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

White  as  that  paper,  he  was,  and  nervous,  and 
so  all-fired  shaky  and  caved-in  that  they  couldn't 
be  no  question  what  was  the  matter.  The 
sheriff  was  scairt. 

First  off,  I  wasn't  hardly  able  to  believe  what 
I  seen  with  my  own  eyes.  Next,  I  begun  to 
think  'round  fer  the  cause  why.  Didn't  have  to 
think  much.  Knowed  they  wasn't  a  pinch  of 
'fraid-cat  in  Bergin — no  crazy-drunk  greaser  'r 
no  passel  of  bad  men,  red  'r  white,  could  put  him 
in  a  sweat,  no,  sir-ree.  They  was  just  one  thing 
on  earth  could  stampede  the  sheriff.  I  kinda 
tip-toed  over  to  him.  "  Bergin,"  I  says,  ff  who  is 
she?" 

He  looked  up — slow.  He's  a  six-footer,  and 
about  as  heavy-set  as  the  bouncer  over  to  the 
eatin'-house.  Wai,  I'm  another  if  ev'ry  square 
inch  of  him  wasn't  tremblin',  and  his  teeth  was 
chatterin'  so  hard  I  looked  to  see  'em  fall  out — 
that's  straight.  Them  big,  blue  eyes  of  hisn 
was  sunk  'way  back  in  his  haid,  too,  and  the  rest 
of  his  face  looked  like  it  'd  got  in  the  way  of  the 
hose.  "  Cupid,"  he  whispered,  "  you've  struck 
it!  Here — read  this." 

It  was  a  telegram.   Say,  you  know  I  ain't  got 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  91 

no  use  fer  telegrams.  The  blamed  things  allus 
give  y'  a  dickens  of  a  start,  and,  nine  times  outen 
ten,  they've  got  somethin'  to  say  that  no  man 
wants  to  hear.  But  I  opened  it  up. 

"  sheriff  george  bergin,"  it  read, — all  little  let- 
ters, y'  savvy.  (Say!  what's  the  matter  that 
they  cain't  send  no  capitals  over  the  wire?) 
"  briggs  city  oklahomaw  meet  mrs  bridger  num- 
ber 201  friday  phillips." 

"  Aw,"  I  says,  "  Mrs.  Bridger.  Wai,  Sheriff, 
who's  this  Mrs.  Bridger  ?" 

Pore  Bergin  just  wagged  his  haid.  '  You'll 
have  to  give  me  a  goose-aig  on  that  one,"  he 
answers. 

:'  Wai,  who's  Phillips,  then?  "  I  continued. 

'  The  Sante  Fee  deepot-master  at  Chicago." 

'  Which  means  you  needn't  to  worry.  Mrs. 
Bridger  is  likely  comin'  on  to  boss  the  gals  at  the 
eatin'-house." 

"  If  that's  so,  what  'd  he  telegraph  to  me  fer?" 

"Don't  know.  Buck  up,  anyhow.  I'll  bet 
she's  gone  'way  past  the  poll-tax  age,  and  has 
got  a  face  like  a  calf  with  a  blab  on  its  nose." 

"  Cupid,"  says  the  sheriff,  standin'  up, 
"  thank  y'.  I  feel  better.  Was  worried  'cause 


92  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

I've  had  bad  luck  lately,  and  bad  luck  most  allus 
runs  in  threes.  Last  week,  my  dawg  died — re- 
member that  one  with  a  buck  tooth  ?  I  was 
tumble  fond  of  that  dawg.  And  yester- 
day " 

He  stopped  then,  and  a  new  crop  of  drops 
come  out  on  to  his  face.  "Look!"  he  says, 
hoarse  like,  and  pointed. 

'Way  off  to  the  north  was  a  little,  dark,  puffy; 
cloud.  It  was  a-travelin'  our  Erection.  Number 
201! 

"  Gosh  ! "  says  the  sheriff,  and  sunk  down  on 
to  the  truck  again. 

I  didn't  leave  him.  I  recollected  what  hap- 
pened that  time  he  captured  "  Cud  "  and  Andy 
Foster  and  brung  'em  into  town,  his  hat  shot  off 
and  his  left  arm  a-hangin'  floppy  agin  his  laig. 
Y'  see,  next  day,  a  bunch  of  ladies — ole  ladies, 
they  was,  too, — tried  to  find  him  and  give  him  a 
vote  of  thanks.  But  when  he  seen  'em  comin', 
he  swore  in  a  deputy — quick — and  vamosed. 
Day  'r  two  afterwards,  here  he  come  outen  that 
cellar  back  of  Dutchy's  thirst-parlour,  his  left 
arm  in  a  red  bandaner,  a  rockin' -chair  and  a  pilla 
under  his  right  one,  and  a  lantern  in  his  teeth ! 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  93 

But  this  time,  he  wasn't  a-goin'  to  have  no 
deputy.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  stay  right  by- 
side  him  till  he'd  did  his  duty.  Yas,  ma'am. 

"  Cupid,"  he  hegun  again,  reachin'  f  er  my 
fist,  "Cupid,  when  it  comes  to  feemales "  I 

Too-oo-oot!  too-oo-oot!  Couldn't  make  him 
hear,  so  I  just  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 
Then  I  hauled  him  up,  and  we  went  down  the 
platform  to  where  the  crowd  was. 

When  the  train  slowed  down,  the  first  thing  I 
seen  was  the  conductor  with  a  kid  in  his  arms, — ! 
a  cute  kid,  about  four,  I  reckon, — a  boy.  Then 
the  cars  stopped,  and  I  seen  a  woman  standin* 
just  behind  them.  Next,  they  was  all  out  on  to 
the  platform,  and  the  woman  was  holdin*  the  kid 
by  one  hand. 

The  woman  was  cute,  too.  Mebbe  thirty, 
mebbe  less,  light-complected,  yalla-haired,  kinda 
plump,  and  about  so  high.  Not  pretty  like 
Mace  'r  Carlota  Arnaz,  but  mighty  good  t'  look 
at.  Blabbed  calf?  Say!  this  was  awful! 

"  Ber-r-gin  ! "  hollers  the  corn-doc. 

"Bergin,"  I  repeats,  encouragin'.  (Hope  I 
never  see  a  man  look  worse.  He  was  all  blue 
and  green!) 


94  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

Bergin,  he  just  kinda  staggered  up.  He'd 
had  one  look,  y'  savvy.  Wai,  he  didn't  look  no 
more.  Pulled  off  his  Stetson,  though.  Then 
he  smoothed  the  cow-lick  over  his  one  eye,  and 
sorta  studied  the  kid. 

"  Sheriff,"  goes  on  the  corn-doc,  "  here's  a 
lady  that  has  been  consigned  to  you'  care. 
Good-bye,  ma'am,  it's  been  a  pleasure  to  look  out 
fer  you.  Good-bye,  little  feller,"  (this  to  the 
kid).  "Aw-aw-awl  abroad!" 

As  Number  201  pulled  out,  you  can  bet  you' 
little  Cupid  helt  on  to  that  sheriff !  "  Bergin," 
I  says,  under  my  breath,  "  fer  heaven's  sake,  re- 
member you'  oath  of  office!  And,  boys/' 
(they  was  about  a  dozen  cow-punchers  behind 
us,  a-smilin'  at  Mrs.  Bridger  so  hard  that  they 
plumb  laid  they  faces  open)  "you'll  have  us  all 
shoved  on  to  the  tracks  in  a  minute !  " 

It  was  the  kid  that  helped  out.  He'd  been 
lookin'  up  at  Bergin  ever  since  he  hit  the  station. 
Now,  all  to  oncet,  he  reached  towards  the  sheriff 
with  both  his  little  hands — as  friendly  as  if  he'd 
knowed  him  all  his  life. 

Y*  know,  Bergin's  heart  *s  as  big  as  a*  ox. 
He's  tender  and  awful  kind,  and  kids  like  him 


A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  95' 

straight  off.  He  likes  kids.  So,  'fore  you 
could  say  Jack  Robinson,  that  Bridger  young 
un  was  histed  up.  I  nodded  to  his  maw,  and  the 
four  of  us  went  into  the  eatin'-house,  where  we 
all  had  some  dinner  t'gether.  Leastways,  me 
and  the  kid  and  Mrs.  Bridger  et.  The  sheriff, 
he  just  sit,  not  sayin'  a  word,  but  pullin'  at  that 
cow-lick  of  hisn  and  orderin'  things  f  er  the  baby. 
And  whilst  we  grubbed,  Mrs.  Bridger  tole  us 
about  herself,  and  how  she  'd  happened  to  come 
out  Oklahomaw  way. 

Seems  she  'd  been  livin'  in  Buffalo,  where  her 
husband  was  the  boss  of  a  lumber-yard.  Wai, 
when  the  kid  was  three  years  old,  Bridger  up  and 
died,  not  leavin'  much  in  the  way  of  cash  f  er  the 
widda.  Then  she  had  to  begin  plannin'  how  to 
git  along,  a-course.  Chicken-ranchin'  got  into 
her  haid.  Somebody  said  Oklahomaw  was  a  good 
place.  She  got  the  name  of  a  land-owner  in 
Briggs  City  and  writ  him.  He  tole  her  he  had  a 
nice  forty  acres  f  er  sale — hunderd  down,  the  bal- 
ance later  on.  She  bit — and  here  she  was. 

"  Who's  the  man? "  I  ast. 

The  widda  pulled  a  piece  of  paper  outen  her 
hand-satchel.  "  Frank  Curry,"  she  answers. 


96  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

Bergin  give  a  jump  that  come  nigh  to  tippin* 
the  table  over,  (Ole  Skinflint  Curry  was  the 
reason.) 

"  And  where's  the  ranch  ?"  I  ast  again. 

"  This  is  where."  She  handed  me  the  paper. 

I  read.  "Why,  Bergin,"  I  says,  "it's  that 
place  right  here  below  town,  back  of  the  section- 
house — the  Starvation  Gap  Ranch." 

iThe  sheriff  throwed  me  a  quick  look. 

"I  hope,"  begun  the  widda,  leanin'  towards 
him,  "  — I  hope  they's  nothin'  agin  the  property." 

Fer  as  much  as  half  a  minute,  neither  of  us 
said  nothin'.  The  sheriff,  a-course,  was  turrible 
flustered  'cause  she  'd  spoke  Jzrect  to  him,  and  he 
just  jiggled  his  knee.  /  was  kinda  bothered,  too, 
and  got  some  coffee  down  my  Sunday  throat. 

"Wai,  as  a  chicken  ranch,"  I  puts  in  fin'lly 
"  it's  O.  K., — shore  thing.  On  both  sides  of  the 
house — see?  like  this,"  (I  took  a  fork  and  be- 
gun drawin'  on  the  table-cloth)  "  is  a  stretch  of 
low  ground, — a  swale,  like,  that  keeps  green  fer 
a  week  'r  so  ev'ry  year,  and  that'll  raise  Kafnr- 
corn  and  such  roughness.  You  git  the  tie- 
houses  of  the  section-gang  plank  in  front — here. 
But  behind,  you'  possessions  rise  straight  up  in 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  97 

to  the  air  like  the  side  of  a  house.  Rogers's 
Butte,  they  call  it.  See  it,  out  there?  A  per- 
son almost  has  to  use  a  ladder  to  climb  it.  On 
top,  it's  all  piled  with  big  rocks.  Of  a  mornin', 
the  hens  can  take  a  trot  up  it  fer  exercise.  The 
fine  view  '11  encourage  'em  to  lay." 

"I'm  so  glad,"  says  the  widda,  kinda  clappin' 
her  hands.  "  I  can  make  enough  to  support 
[Willie  and  me  easy.  And  it'll  seem  awful  fine 
to  have  a  little  home  all  my  own!  I  ain't  never 
lived  in  the  country  afore,  but  I  know  it'll  be 
lovely  to  raise  chickens.  In  pictures,  the  little 
bits  of  ones  is  allus  so  cunnin'." 

Wai,  I  didn't  answer  her.  What  could  I  'a* 
said?  And  Bergin? — he  come  nigh  pullin'  his 
cow-lick  clean  out. 

By  this  time,  that  little  kid  had  his  bread-bas- 
ket full.  So  he  clumb  down  outen  his  chair  and 
come  'round  to  the  sheriff.  Bergin  took  him  on 
to  his  lap.  The  kid  lay  back  and  shut  his  eyes. 
His  maw  smiled  over  at  Bergin.  Bergin  smiled 
down  at  the  kid. 

"Wai,  folks,"  I  begun,  gittin*  up,  "I'm  tur- 
rible  sorry,  but  I  got  to  tear  myself  away. 
Promised  to  help  the  Bar  Y  boys  work  a  herd." 


98  A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

ff  Cupid! "  It  was  the  sheriff,  voice  kinda 
croaky. 

"Good-bye  fer  just  now,  Mrs.  Bridger."  (I 
pretended  not  t'  hear  Mm.)  "  So  long,  Ber- 
gin." 

And  I  skedaddled. 

Two  minutes  afterwards  here  they  come  out  en 
the  eatin'-house,  the  widda  totin'  a  basket  and 
the  sheriff  totin'  the  kid.  I  watched  'em  through 
the  crack  of  Silverstein's  front  door,  and  I 
hummed  that  good  ole  song : 

f< He  never  keers  to  wander  from  his  own  fire- 
side; 

He  never  keers  to  ramble  3r  to  roam. 
With  his  baby  on  his  knee., 
HeJs  as  happy  as  can  be-e-e, 
'Cause  ihey's  no-o-o  place  like  home,  sweet 
home." 

When  I  got  back  to  the  Bar  Y,  I  was  dead 
leary  about  tellin'  Mace  that  I  had  half  a  mind 
t'  git  Bergin  married  off.  'Cause,  y'  see,  I'd 
been  made  fun  of  so  much  fer  my  Cupid  busi- 
ness; and  I  hated  t'  think  of  doin'  somethin' 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  99 

she  wouldn't  like.  But,  fin'lly,  I  managed  t' 
spunk  up  sufficient,  and  described  Mrs.  Bridger 
and  the  kid,  and  said  what  I'd  like  t'  do  f  er  the 
sheriff. 

"  Alec,"  says  the  little  gal,  "  I  been  tole  (Rose 
tole  me)  how  you  like  t'  help  couples  that's  in 
love.  It's  what  made  me  first  like  you." 

"  Honey!  Then  you'll  help  me?  " 

"Shore,  I  will." 

I  give  her  a  whoppin'  smack  right  on  that  cute, 
little,  square  chin  of  hern.  "  You  darlin' ! "  I 
says.  And  then  I  put  another  where  it'd  do  the 
most  good. 

"  Alec,"  she  says,  when  she  could  git  a  word  in 
edgeways,  "  this  widda  comin'  is  mighty  f  ortu- 
nate.  Bergin's  too  ole  fer  the  gals  at  the  eatin'- 
house.  But  Mrs.  Bridger'll  suit.  Now,  I'll  lope 
down  to  the  Gap  right  soon  t*  visit  her,  and  you 
go  back  t'  town  t'  see  how  him  goin*  home  with 
her  come  out." 

"  Mace,"  I  says,  "  if  we  just  can  help  such  a 
fine  feller  t'  git  settled.  But  it'll  be  a  job — a' 
awful  job.  She's  a  nice,  affectionate  little  thing. 
Why,  he'd  be  a  blamed  sight  happier.  And  he 
likes  the  kid " 


100  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"Let's  not  count  our  chickens  'fore  they 
hatch,"  breaks  in  Mace. 

Wai,  I  hiked  fer  town,  and  found  the  sheriff! 
right  where  he  was  settin'  that  mornin'.  But, 
say!  lie  was  a  changed  man!  No  shakin',  no 
caved-in  look — nothiri*  of  that  kind.  He  was 
gazin'  thoughtful  at  a  knot  in  the  deepot  plat- 
form, his  mouth  was  part  way  open,  and  they 
was  a  sorta  sickly  grin  spread  all  over  them  fea- 
tures of  hisn. 

I  stopped  byside  him.  "  Wai,  Sheriff,"  I  says, 
inquirin*. 

He  sit  up.  "  j£w — is  that  you,  Cupid?  "  he  ast. 
r(I  reckon  I  know  a  guilty  son-of-a-gun  when  I 
see  one!) 

I  sit  down  on  the  other  end  of  the  truck.  "  Did 
Mrs.  Bridger  git  settled  all  right?"  I  begun. 

'  Yas,"  he  answers;  "  I  pulled  the  rags  outen 
the  windas,  and  put  some  panes  of  glass  in " 

"Good  fer  you,  Bergin!  But,  thunder!  the 
idear  of  her  thinkin'  she  can  raise  chickens  fer 
a  livin' — 'way  out  here.  Why,  a  grasshopper 
ranch  ain't  no  place  fer  that  little  woman." 
'{And  I  watched  sideways  to  see  how  he'd  take 

it.) 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  101 

'  You're  right,  Cupid,"  he  says.  Then,  after 
swallerin'  hard,  "Did  you  happen  t'  notice  how 
soft  and  kinda  pinky  her  hands  is? " 

Was  that  the  sheriff  talkin'?  Wai,  you  could 
'a*  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather! 

'  Yas,  Sheriff,"  k  I  answers,  "  I  noticed  her 
pretty  particular.  And  it  strikes  me  that  we 
needn't  to  worry — she  won't  stay  on  that  ranch 
long.  Out  here  in  Oklahomaw,  any  widda  is  in 
line  fer  another  husband  if  she'll  take  one.  In 
Mrs.  Bridger's  case,  it  won't  be  just  any  ole 
hobo  that  comes  along.  She'll  be  able  to  pick 
and  choose  from  a  grea-a-at,  bi-i-ig  bunch.  / 
seen  how  the  boys  acted  when  she  got  off  en  that 
train  t'-day — and  I  knowed  then  that  it  wouldn't 
be  no  time  till  she'd  marry." 

The  sheriff  is  tall,  as  I  said  afore.  Wai,  a 
kinda  shiver  went  up  and  down  the  hull  length 
of  him.  Then,  he  sprung  up,  givin'  the  truck  a 
kick.  "  Marry  I  marry!  marry! "  he  begun,  grind- 
in'  his  teeth  t'gether.  "  Cain't  you  talk  nothin* 
else  but  marry? " 

"  No-o-ow,  Bergin,"  I  says,  "  what  diff 'rence 
does  it  make  t'  you?  S'pose  she  marries,  and 
s'pose  she  don't.  You  don't  give  a  bean.  Wai,  / 


102  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncker 

look  at  it  diff 'rent.  /  know  that  nice  little  kid 
of  hern  needs  the  keer  of  a  father — yas,  Bergin, 
the  keer  of  a  father.3'  And  I  looked  him  square 
in  the  eye. 

"  It's  just  like  Hairoil  says,"  he  went  on.  "  If 
Doc  Simpson  was  t'  use  a  spy-glass  on  you,  he'd 
find  you  plumb  alive  with  bugs — marryin3  bugs. 
Yas,  sir.  With  you,  it's  a  disease" 

cc  Wai33  I  answers,  "  don't  git  anxious  that 
it's  ketchin'.  You?  Huh!  If  I  had  anythin' 
agin  the  widda,  I  might  be  a-figgerin'  on  how  t' 
hitch  her  up  t'  you — you  ole  woman-hater!" 

:<  The  best  thing  you  can  do,  Mister  Cupid," 
growls  Bergin  (with  a  few  cuss  words  thro  wed 
in),  "is  to  mind-youj -own-business" 

"  All  right,"  I  answers  cheerful.  ff  I  heerd  y'. 
But,  I  never  could  see  why  you  fellers  are  so 
down  on  me  when  I  advise  marryin'.  Take  my 
word  f er  it,  Sheriff,  any  man's  a  heap  better  off 
with  a  nice  wife  to  look  after  his  shack,  and  keep 
it  slicked  up,  and  a  nice  baby  'r  two  t'  pull  his 
whiskers,  and  I  reckon " 

But  Bergin  was  makin'  fer  the  freight  shed, 
two-forty. 

When  I  tole  Mace  what'd  passed  'twixt  me 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  103 

and  the  sheriff,  she  says,  "  Alec,  leave  him  alone 
f  er  ~a  while,  and  mebbe  he'll  look  you  up.  In  love 
affairs,  don't  never  try  t'  drive  nobody" 

"But  ain't  it  funny,"  I  says  (it  was  lodge 
night,  and  we  had  the  porch  to  ourselves), 
—ain't  it  funny  how  dead  set  some  fellers  is  agin 
marryin' — the  blamed  fools!  Y'  see,  they  think 
that  if  they  don't  hitch  up  t'  some  sweet  gal,  why, 
they  git  ahaid  of  somebody.  It  makes  me  plumb 
sick!" 

"  But  think  of  the  lucky  gal  that  don't  marry 
such  a  yap,"  says  Mace.  "  If  she  was  to,  by 
some  hook  'r  crook,  why,  he'd  throw  it  up  to  her 
f er  the  balance  of  his  life  that  she'd  ketched  him 
like  a  rat  in  a  trap." 

ff  I  never  could  git  no  such  notion  about  you,'* 
I  says ;  "  aw,  little  gal,  we'll  be  so  happy,  you 
and  me,  won't  we,  honey, " 

Wai,  to  continue  with  the  Bridger  story:  You 
recollect  what  I  said  about  that  kid  needin'  a 
father?  Wai,  say!  if  he'd  'a'  wanted  one,  he 
shore  could  'a'  picked  from  plenty  of  candi- 
dates. Why,  'fore  long,  ev'ry  bach  in  town  had 
his  cap  set  fer  Mrs.  Bridger — that's  straight. 
All  other  subjects  of  jpolite  conversation  was 


104  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

f ergot  byside  the  subject  of  the  widda.  Sam 
Barnes  was  in  love  with  her,  and  went  'round 
with  that  red  face  of  hisn  lookin'  exac'ly  like 
the  full  moon  when  you  see  it  through  a  sand- 
storm. Chub  Flannagan  was  in  love  with  her, 
too,  and  'd  sit  by  the  hour  on  Silverstein's  front 
porch,  his  pop  eyes  shut  up  tight,  a-rockin'  his- 
self  back'ards  and  for'ards,  back'ards  and  for- 
'ards, and  a-hummin'.  Then,  they  was  Dutchy's 
brother,  August.  Aw,  he  had  it  bad.  And  took 
t'  music,  just  like  Chub,  yas,  ma'am.  Why,  that 
feller  spent  hours  a-knockin'  the  wind  outen  a* 
pore  accordion.  And  next  come  Frank  Curry 
— haid  over  heels,  too,  mean  as  he  was.  and  to 
hear  him  talk  you'd  'a'  bet  they  wasn't  noihin' 
he  wouldn't  V  done  fer  Mrs.  Bridger.  But  big 
talk's  cheap,  and  he  was  small  potatoes,  you  bet, 
and  few  in  the  hill. 

Wai,  one  after  the  other,  them  four  fellers 
blacked  they  boots,  wet  they  hair  down  as  nice 
and  shiny  as  Hairoil's,  and  wrent  to  see  the  widda. 
She  ast  'em  in,  a-course,  and  was  neighbourly; 
fed  'em,  too,  if  it  was  nigh  meal-time,  and  acted, 
gen'ally  speakin',  as  sweet  as  pie. 

But    she    treated    'em    all    alike.    And    they 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  105 

knowed  it.  Consequently,  in  order  so's  all  of  'em 
would  git  a'  even  chanst,  and  so's  they  wouldn't 
be  no  gun-play  account  of  one  man  tryin'  to  cut 
another  out  by  goin'  to  see  her  twicet  to  the 
other  man's  oncet,  the  aforesaid  boys  fixed  up  a 
calendar.  Sam  got  Monday,  Curry,  Wednesday, 
Dutch  August,  Friday,  and  Chub,  Sunday  aft- 
ernoons. That  tickled  Chub.  He  owns  a  liv'ry- 
stable,  y'  savvy,  and  ev'ry  week  he  hitched  up  a 
rig  and  took  the  widda  and  her  kid  f  er  a  buggy 
ride. 

And,  Bergin?  Wai,  I'd  took  Macie's  advice 
and  stayed  away  from  him.  But — the  stay-away 
plan  hadn't  worked  worth  a  darn.  The  sheriff,  he 
kept  to  his  shack  pretty  steady.  And  one 
mornin',  when  I  seen  him  at  the  post-office,  he 
didn't  have  nothin'  t'  say  to  nobody,  and  looked 
sorta  down  on  creation. 

That  fin'lly  riled  Mace.  "  What's  the  matter 
with  him?"  she  says  one  day.  :'Why,  havin' 
saw  the  widda,  how  can  he  help  fallin*  in  love 
with  her!  She's  the  nicest  little  woman!  And 
she's  learned  me  a  new  crochet  stitch." 

"  Little  gal,"  I  answers,  "  you'  idear  has  been 
carried  out  faithful — and  has  gone  fluey.  Wai, 


106  A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

let  Cupid  have  a  try.  A-course,  I  was  sit  on 
pretty  hard  in  that  confab  I  had  with  him,  but, 
all  the  same,  I'll  just  happen  'round  fer  a  little 
neighbourly  call." 

His  shack  was  over  behind  the  town  cooler, 
and  stood  by  itself,  Mnda — a'  ashes  dump  on  one 
side  of  it  and  Sparks's  hoss-corral  on  the  other. 
It  had  one  room,  just  high  enough  so's  Bergin 
wouldn't  crack  his  skull,  and  just  wide  enough 
so's  when  he  laid  down  on  his  bunk  he  wouldn't 
kick  out  the  side  of  the  house.  And  they  was  a 
rusty  stove  with  a  dictionary  toppin'  it,  and  a 
saddle  and  a  f  ryin'-pan  on  the  bed,  and  a  big  sack 
of  flour  a-spillin'  into  a  pair  of  his  boots. 

I  put  the  fry  in' -pan  on  the  floor,  and  sit  down. 
"  Wai,  Sheriff,"  I  begun  (he  had  a  skittle  'twixt 
his  knees  and  was  a-peelin'  some  spuds  fer  his  din- 
ner) ,  "  I  ain't  come  t'  sponge  off  en  you.  Me  and 
Macie  Sewell  had  our  dinner  down  to  Mrs. 
Bridger's  t'-day." 

He  let  slip  the  potato  he  was  peelin',  and  it 
rolled  under  the  stove.  "  Yas?"  he  says;  "that 
so?" 

"  And  such  a  dinner  as  she  give  us ! "  I  goes 
on.  "  Had  a  white  oilcloth  on  the  table, — white, 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  107 

with  little  blue  vi'lets  on  it — and  all  her  dishes  is 
white  and  blue.  She  brung  'em  from  Buffalo. 
And  we  had  fried  chicken,  and  corn-dodgers,  and 
prune  somethin'-'r-other.  Say!  I — I  s'pose  you 
ain't  been  down." 

"  No," — kinda  wistful,  and  eyes  on  his 
peelin' — "no.  How — how  is  she?" 

"  Aw,  fine!  The  kid,  he  ast  after  you." 

"Did  he?"  He  looked  up,  awful  tickled. 
Then,  "  He's  a  nice,  little  kid,"  he  adds  thought- 
ful. 

"  He  shore  is."  I  riz.  "  Sorry,"  I  says,  "  but 
I  got  to  mosey  now.  Promised  Mrs.  Bridger  I'd 
take  her  some  groceries  down."  I  started  out, 
all  business.  But  I  stopped  at  the  door.  "  Reckon 
I'll  have  to  make  two  trips  of  it — if  I  cain't  git 
someone  t'  help  me." 

Say!  it  was  plumb  pitiful  the  way  Bergin 
grabbed  at  the  chanst.  "Why,  I  don't  mind 
takin'  a  stroll,"  he  answers,  gittin'  some  red.  So 
he  put  down  the  spuds  and  begun  to  curry  that 
cowlick  of  hisn. 

First  part  of  the  way,  he  walked  as  spry  as 
me.  But,  as  we  come  closter  to  the  widda's,  he 
got  to  hangin'  back.  And  when  we  reached  a 


108  Alec  Lloyd,    Cowpuncher 

big  pile  of  sand  that  was  out  in  front  of  the 
house — he  balked! 

"  Guess  I  won't  go  in,"  he  says. 

"  O.  K.,"  I  answers.  (No  use  to  cross  him,  y* 
savvy,  it'd  only  'a'  made  him  worse.) 

When  I  knocked,  and  the  widda  opened  the 
door,  she  seen  him. 

.  "  Why,  how  d'  you  do! "  she  called  out,  lookin' 
mighty  pleased.  "Willie,  dear,  here's  Mister 
Bergin." 

"  How  d'  do,"  says  the  sheriff. 

Willie  come  nigh  havin'  a  duck-fit,  he  was  so 
happy.  And  in  about  two  shakes  of  a  lamb's 
tail,  he  was  outen  the  house  and  a-climbin'  the 
sheriff. 

Inside,  I  says  to  Mrs.  Bridger,  "  Them  chick- 
ens of  yourn  come,  ma'am.  And  Hairoil  John- 
son'll  drive  'em  down  in  a'  hour  'r  so.  The  most 
of  'em  looked  fat  and  sassy,  but  one  'r  two  has 
got  the  pip.'* 

She  didn't  act  like  she'd  heerd  me.  She  was 
vWatchin'  the  sandpile. 

"  One  'r  two  has  got  the  pip,"  I  repeats. 

"What?— how's  that?"  she  ast. 

"  Don't  worry  about  you'  boy,"  I  says.  "  Ber- 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  109 

gin'll  look  after  him.  Y'  know,  Bergin  is  one 
of  the  whitest  gents  in  Oklahomaw." 

" I  ain't  a-worryin',"  answers  the  widda.  "I 
know  Mister  Bergin  is  a  fine  man."  And  she 
kept  on  lookin'  out. 

"  In  this  wild  country,"  I  begun,  voice  'way 
down  to  my  spurs,  " — this  wild  country,  full 
of  rattlesnakes  and  Injuns  and  tramps,  ev'ry 
ranch  needs  a  good  man  'round  it." 

She  turned  like  lightnin'.  "  What  you  mean?  " 
she  ast,  kinda  short.  (Reckon  she  thought  I 
was  tryin'  t'  spark  her.) 

"  A  man  like  Bergin,"  I  continues. 

"Aw,"  she  says,  plumb  relieved. 

And  I  left  things  that-a-way — t'  sprout. 

Walkin'  up  the  track  afterwards,  I  remarked, 
casual  like,  that  they  wasn't  many  women  nicer 
'n  Mrs.  Bridger. 

'*  They's  one  thing  I  like  about  her,"  says  the 
sheriff,  "  — she's  got  eyes  like  the  kid." 

(Dang  the  kid!) 

Wai,  me  and  Macie  and  them  four  sparkers 
.wasn't  the  only  folks  that  thought  the  widda  was 
mighty  nice.  She'd  made  lots  of  friends  at  the 
section-house  since  she  come.  The  section-boss's 


110  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

wife  said  they  was  nobody  like  her,  and  so  did 
all  the  greaser  women  at  the  tie-camp.  She  was 
so  handy  with  a  needle,  and  allus  ready  to  cut 
out  calico  dingusses  that  the  peon  gals  could 
sew  up.  When  they'd  have  one  of  them  ever- 
lastin'  fiestas  of  theirn,  she'd  make  a  big  cake 
and  a  keg  of  lemonade,  and  pass  it  'round.  And 
when  you  consider  that  a  ten-cent  package  of 
cigareets  and  a  smile  goes  further  with  a  Mexi- 
can than  fifty  plunks  and  a  cuss,  why,  you  can 
git  some  idear  of  how  that  hull  outfit  just  wor- 
shipped her. 

Wai,  they  got  in  and  done  her  a  lot  of  good 
turns.  Put  up  a  fine  chicken-coop,  the  section- 
boss  overseein'  the  job;  and,  one  Sunday,  cleaned 
out  her  cellar.  Think  of  it!  (Say!  fer  a  man  to 
appreciate  that,  he's  got  to  know  what  lazy  crit- 
ters greasers  is.)  Last  of  all,  kinda  to  wind 
things  up,  the  cholos  went  out  into  the  mesquite 
and  come  back  with  a  present  of  a  nice  black- 
and-white  Poland  China  hawg. 

Wai,  she  was  tickled  at  that,  and  so  was  the 
kid.  (Hairoil  Johnson  was  shy  a  pig  that  week, 
but  you  bet  he  never  let  on!)  The  gang  made  a 
nice  little  pen,  usin'  ties,  and  ev'ry  day  they 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  111 

packed  over  some  feed  in  the  shape  of  the  camp 
leavin's. 

The  widda  was  settled  fine,  had  half  a  dozen 
hens  a-settin'  and  some  castor  beans  a-growin' 
in  the  low  spots  next  her  house,  when  things  be- 
gun to  come  to  a  haid  with  the  calendar  gents. 
I  got  it  straight  from  her  that  in  just  one  soli- 
tary week,  she  collected  four  pop-the-questions ! 

She  handed  out  exac'ly  that  many  pairs  of 
mittens — handed  'em  out  with  such  a  sorry  look 
in  them  kind  eyes  of  hern,  that  the  courtin'  quar- 
tette got  worse  in  love  with  her  'n  ever.  Any- 
body could  a'  seen  that  with  one  eye.  They  all 
begun  shavin'  twicet  a  week,  most  ev'ry  one  of 
'em  bought  new  things  to  wear,  and — best  sign 
of  any — they  stopped  drinkin'I  Ev'ry  day  'r  so, 
back  they'd  track  to  visit  the  widda. 

She  didn't  like  that  fer  a  cent.  Wasn't  nary 
one  of  'em  that  suited  her,  and  just  when  the 
chickens  'r  the  cholo  gals  needed  her,  here  was, 
a  Briggs  City  galoot  a-crossin*  the  yard. 

"  Sorry,"  she  says  to  Macie,  "  but  I'll  have  to 
give  them  gents  they  walkin'-papers.  If  I  don't, 
I  won't  never  git  a  lick  done.' 

"Bully  fer  you!"  Mace  answers.  "It'll  be 


112  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish.  They're  too 
gaily."  (Somethin5  like  that,  anyhow.)  "Learn 
'em  to  act  like  they  was  civylised.  But,  say,  Mrs. 
Bridger,  you — you  ain't  a-goin'  to  give  the  rinky- 
dink  to  the  Sheriff?  " 

"  Mister  Bergin,"  answers  the  widda,  "  ain't 
bothered  me  none."  (Mace  was  shore  they  was 
tears  in  her  eyes.) 

"  Aw — haw! "  I  says,  when  the  little  gal  tole 
me.  /  savvied. 

That  same  afternoon,  whilst  the  widda  was 
a-settin'  on  the  shady  side  of  the  house,  sewin' 
on  carpet-rags,  up  come  Sam  Barnes.  (It  was 
Monday.) 

"  Mrs.  Bridger,"  he  begun,  "  I'm  a-goin'  to 
ast  you  to  think  over  what  I  said  to  you  last 
week.  I  don't  want  to  be  haidstrong,  but  I'd 
like  to  git  a  '  yas '  outen  you." 

"  Mister  Barnes,"  she  says.  "  I'm  feard  I 
cain't  say  yas.  I  ain't  thinkin'  of  marryin'.  But 
if  I  was,  it'd  be  to  a  man  that's — that's  big,  and 
tall,  and  has  blue  eyes."  And  she  looked  out  at 
the  sand-pile,  and  sighed. 

"  Wai,"  says  Sam,  "  I  reckon  I  don't  fit  speci- 
fications." And  he  hiked  fer  town. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  113 

He  was  plumb  huffy  when  he  tole  me  about 
it.  "  Fer  a  woman,"  he  says,  "  that's  got  to  look 
after  herself,  and  has  a  kid  on  her  hands  to 
boot,  she's  got  more  airs'n  a  windmill." 

Next! 

That  was  Chub. 

Now,  Chub,  he  knowed  a  heap  about  handlin' 
a  gun,  and  I  reckon  he'd  pass  as  a  liv'ry-stable 
keeper,  but  he  didn't  know  much  about  women. 
So,  when  he  went  down  to  ast  the  widda  fer  the 
second  time,  he  put  his  foot  in  it  by  bein'  kinda 
short  t'  little  Willie. 

"  Say,  kid,"  he  says,  "you  locate  over  in  that 
rockin'-chair  yonder.  Young  uns  of  you'  age 
should  be  saw  and  not  heerd." 

Mrs.  Bridger,  she  sit  right  up,  and  her  eye- 
winkers  just  snapped.  "  Mister  Flannagan,"  she 
Says,  "I'm  feard  you're  wastin'  you'  time 
a-callin'  here.  If  ever  I  marry  again,  it's  goin' 
t'  be  a  man  that's  fond  of  childern." 

Wai,  ta-ta,  Chub! 

And,  behind,  there  was  the  widda  at  the  winda, 
all  eyes  fer  that  sand-pile. 

We  never  knowed  what  she  said  to  Dutchy's 
brother,  August.  But  he  come  back  to  town 


114  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

lookin'  madder'n  a  wet  hen.  "Huh!"  he  says, 
"  I  don't  vant  her  nohow.  She  couldn't  vork. 
She's  pretty  f  er  nice,  all  right,  but  she's  nichts 
fer  stoudt." 

When  ole  stingy  Curry  tried  his  luck  over,  he 
took  his  lead  from  Chub's  experience.  Seems  he 
put  one  arm  'round  the  kid,  and  then  he  said  no 
man  could  kick  about  havin'  to  adopt  Willie, 
and  he  knowed  that  with  Mrs.  Bridger  it  was 
"love  me,  love  my  dawg."  Then  he  tacked  on 
that  the  boy  was  a  nice  little  feller,  and  likely 
didn't  eat  much. 

"  And  long's  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  marry  you," 
says  the  widda,  "  why,  just  think — you  won't 
have  to  feed  Willie  at  all! " 

But  the  next  day  we  laughed  on  the  other  side 
of  our  face.  I  went  down  to  Mrs.  Bridger's,  the 
sheriff  trailin',  (he  balked  half-way  from  the 
sand-pile  to  the  door,  this  time,  and  sit  down  on  a 
bucket  t'  play  he  was  Willie's  steam-in jine),  and 
I  found  that  the  little  woman  had  been  cryin' 
tumble. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  ast. 

"Nothin',"  she  says. 

"  Yas,  they  is.  Didn't  you  git  a  dun  t'-day? " 


" Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  115 

"  Wai,"  she  answers,  blushin',  "  I  bought  this 
place  on  tick.  But,"  (brave  as  the  dickens,  she 
was)  "I'll  be  able  t'  pay  up  all  right — what 
with  my  chickens  and  the  pig." 

I  talked  with  her  a  good  bit.  Then  me  and  the 
sheriff  started  back  to  town.  (Had  to  go  slow 
at  first;  Bergin'd  helt  the  ingineer  on  his  knee 
till  his  foot  was  asleep.)  On  the  way,  I  mentioned 
that  dun. 

" Curry''  says  the  sheriff.  And  he  come  nigh 
rippin'  up  the  railroad  tracks. 

He  made  fer  Curry's  straight  off.  "What's 
the  little  balance  due  on  that  Starvation  Gap 
property?"  he  begun. 

"What  makes  you  ast?"  says  Curry,  battin* 
them  sneaky  little  eyes  of  hisn. 

"  I'm  prepared  t'  settle  it." 

"  But  it  happens  I  didn't  sell  to  you.  So, 
a-course,  I  cain't  take  you'  money.  Anyhow,  I 
don't  think  the  widda  is  worryin'  much.  She 
could  git  shet  of  that  balance  easy."  And  he 
moseyed  off. 

She  could  git  shet  of  it  by  marryin*  him,  y* 
savvy — the  polecat! 

The  sheriff  was  boilin'.    "Here,  Cupid,"  he 


116          K   Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

says,  "is  two  hunderd.  Now,  we'll  go  down  to 
Mrs.  Bridger's  again,  and  you  offer  her  as  much 
as  she  wants." 

"Offer  it  you'self." 

"  No,  you  do  it,  Cupid, — please.  But  don't  you 
tell  her  whose  money  it  is." 

"  I  won't.  Here's  where  we  git  up  The  Ranch- 
ers' Loan  Fund." 

I  coaxed  Bergin  as  far  as  the  front  step  this 
time.  Wasn't  that  fine?  But,  say!  Mrs.  Bridger 
wouldn't  touch  a  cent  of  that  money,  no 
ma'am. 

"  If  I  was  to  take  it  as  a  loan,"  she  says,  "  I'd 
have  interest  to  pay.  So  I'd  be  worse  off  'n  I  am 
now.  And  I  couldn't  take  it  in  no  other  way. 
Thank  y',  just  the  same.  And  how's  Miss  Sewell 
t'-day?" 

It  wasn't  no  use  fer  me  to  tell  her  that  The 
Ranchers'  Loan  Fund  didn't  want  no  interest. 
She  was  as  set  as  Rogers's  Butte. 

During  the  next  week  'r  two,  the  sheriff  and 
me  dropped  down  to  the  widda's  frequent.  I'd 
talk  to  her — about  chicken-raisin'  mostly — 
whilst  Bergin  'd  play  with  the  kid.  One  day  I 
got  him  to  come  as  far  as  the  door!  But  I  never 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  117 

got  him  no  further.  There  he  stuck,  and  'd  stand 
on  the  sill  fer  hours,  lookin'  out  at  Willie — like 
a  great,  big,  scairt,  helpless  calf. 

At  first  the  widda  talked  to  him,  pleasant  and 
encouragin'.  But  when  he  just  said,  '  Yas, 
ma'am,"  and  "  No,  ma'am,"  and  nothin'  else,  she 
changed.  I  figger  ('cause  women  is  right  funny) 
that  her  pride  was  some  hurt.  What  if  he  was 
bound  up  in  the  boy?  Didn't  he  have  no  interest 
in  Tier?  It  hurt  her  all  the  worse,  mebbe,  'cause 
I  was  there,  and  seen  how  he  acted.  'Fore  long 
she  begun  to  git  plumb  outen  patience  with  him. 
And  one  day,  when  he  was  standin'  gazin'  out, 
she  flew  up. 

"  George  Bergin,"  she  says,  "  a  door  is  some- 
thin'  else  'cept  a  place  to  scratch  you  back  on." 
And  she  shut  it — him  outside,  plumb  squshed! 

Wai,  we'd  did  our  best — both  Mace  and  me — 
and  fell  down.  But  right  here  is  where  somethin* 
better'n  just  good  luck  seemed  to  take  a-holt  of 
things.  In  the  first  place,  ccwsiderin'  what  come 
of  it,  it  shore  was  fortunate  that  Pedro  Garcia, 
one  of  them  trashy  section-gang  cholos,  was  just 
a-passin'  the  house  as  she  done  that.  He  heerd 
the  slam.  He  seen  the  look  on  Bergin's  face,  too. 


118  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

And  he  fixed  up  what  was  the  matter  in  that 
crazy  haid  of  hisn. 

In  the  second  place,  the  very  next  day,  blamed 
if  Curry  didn't  hunt  Bergin  up.  "  Sheriff,"  he 
begun,  "  I  ain't  been  able  to  collect  what's  due 
me  from  Mrs.  Bridger.  She  ain't  doin'  nothin' 
with  the  property,  neither.  So  I  call  on  you  to 
put  her  off."  And  he  belt  out  a  paper. 

Put  Tier  off!  Say!  You  oughta  saw  Bergin's 
face! 

"  Curry,"  he  says,  "  in  Oklahomaw,  a  dis- 
possess notice  agin  a  widda  ain't  worth  the  ink  it's 
drawed  with." 

"Ain't  it?"  says  Curry.  "You  mean  you 
won't  act.  All  right.  If  you  won't,  they's  other 
folks  that  mil." 

rf  Will  they,"  answers  the  sheriff,  quiet.  But 
they  was  a  fightin'  look  in  his  eyes.  "  Curry, 
go  slow.  Don't  f  ergit  that  the  Gap  property  ain't 
worth  such  a  hull  lot." 

The  next  thing,  them  cholos  in  the  section- 
gang  'd  heerd  what  Bergin  was  ordered  to  do. 
And,  like  a  bunch  of  id  jits,  'stead  of  gittin'  down 
on  Curry,  who  was  responsible,  they  begun 
makin'  all  kinds  of  brags  about  what  they'd  do 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  119 

when  next  they  seen  the  sheriff.  And  it  looked 
to  me  like  gun-play  was  a-comin'. 

But  not  just  yet.  Fer  the  reason  that  the 
sheriff,  without  sayin'  "I,"  "  Yas,"  'r  "No"  to 
nobody,  all  of  a  suddent  disappeared. 

"  What  in  the  dickens  has  struck  him! "  I  says 
t'  Mace. 

"Just  you  wait,"  she  answers.  "It's  got  t' 
do  with  Mrs.  B.  -He  ain't  down  in  a  cellar  this 
time." 

Wai,  he  wasn't.  But  we  was  in  the  dark  as 
much  as  the  rest  of  the  town,  till  one  evenin* 
when  the  section-boss  called  me  to  one  side.  He 
had  somethin'  t'  tell  me,  he  said.  Could  I  keep 
a  secret — cross  my  heart  t'  die?  Yas.  Wai,  then 
—what  d'  you  think  it  was?  The  sheriff  was 
camped  right  back  of  the  mddas — on  Rogers's 
Butte! 

"  Pardner,"  I  says,  "  don't  you  cheep  that  to 
another  soul.  Bergin  is  up  there  t'  keep  Curry 
from  puttin'  the  widda  out." 

The  section-boss  begun  to  haw-haw.  '*I1?d 
take  a  hull  regiment  of  soldiers  to  put  the  widda 
out,"  he  says,  " — with  them  greasers  of  mine  so 
dost." 


120  < Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"  I'll  go  down  that  way  on  a  kinda  scout,"  I 
says,  and  started  off.  When  I  got  clost  to  the 
widda's, — about  as  far  as  from  here  to  that 
hitchin'-post  yonder — I  seen  a  crowd  of  women 
and  kids  a-lookin'  at  somethin'  behind  the  house. 
I  walked  up  and  stretched  my  neck.  And  there 
in  that  tie-pen  was  a'  even  dozen  of  new  little 
pigs! 

"  Ma'am,"  I  says,  "  this  is  good  luck! ") 

"Good  luck?"  repeats  the  widda.  "I  reckon1 
it's  somethin'  more'n  just  good  luck."  (Them's 
exac'ly  her  words — "  Somethin'  more'n  just  good 
luck.") 

"  Wai,"  I  goes  on,  "  oncet  in  a  while,  a  feller's 
got  to  admit  that  somethin'  better 'n  just  or- 
d'nary  good  luck  does  git  in  a  whack.  Mebbe 
it'll  be  the  case  of  a  gezaba  that  ain't  acted 
square;  first  thing  you  know,  his  hash  is  settled. 
Next  time,  it's  exac'ly  the  other  way  'round,  and 
some  nice  lady  'r  gent  finds  theyselves  landed 
not  a'  inch  from  where  they  wanted  to  be.  But 
neither  case  cain't  be  called  just  good  luck,  no, 
ma'am.  Fer  the  reason  that  the  contrary  facts 
is  plumb  shoved  in  you'  face. 

"  Now,  take  what  happened  to  Burt  Slade. 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  121 

Burt  had  a  lot  of  potatoes  ready  to  plank — about 
six  sacks  of  'em,  I  reckon.  The  ground  was 
ready,  and  the  sacks  was  in  the  field.  Wai,  that 
night,  a  blamed  ornery  thief  come  'long  and  stole 
all  them  potatoes.  (This  was  in  Nebraska,  mind 
y'.)Took  'em  fifty  mile  north  and  planted  'em 
clost  to  his  house.  So  far,  you  might  call  it  just 
bad  luck.  But — a  wind  come  up,  a  turrible  wind, 
and  blowed  all  the  dirt  offen  them  potatoes; 
next,  it  lifted  'em  and  sent  'em  a-kitin'  through 
the  windas  of  that  thief's  house — yas,  ma'am,  it 
took  'em  in  at  the  one  side,  and  outen  the  other, 
breakin'  ev'ry  blamed  pane  of  glass;  then — I'm 
another  if  it  ain't  so  1 — it  sailed  'em  all  that  fifty 
mile  back  to  Slade's  and  druv  'em  into  the  ground 
that  he'd  fixed  fer  'em.  And  when  they  sprouted, 
a  little  bit  later  on  that  spring,  Slade  seen  they'd 
been  planted  in  rows! 

'  They  ain't  no  doubt  about  this  story  bein' 
true.  In  the  first  place,  Slade  ain't  a  man  that'd 
lie;  in  the  second  place,  ev'rybody  knows  his 
potatoes  was  stole,  and  ev'rybody  knows  that, 
just  the  same,  he  had  a  powerful  big  crop  that 
year;  and,  then,  Slade  can  show  you  his  field 
any  time  you  happen  to  be  in  that  part  of  Ne- 


122  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

braska.  And  no  man  wants  any  better  proof'n 
that/' 

" A-course,  he  don't,"  says  the  widda.  "And 
I'd  call  that  potato  transaction  plumb  wonder- 
ful." 

"  It  shore  was." 

She  turned  back  to  the  hawgs.  "  I  can  almost 
see  these  little  pigs  grow,"  she  says,  "  and  I'm 
right  fond  of  'em  a'ready.  I — I  hope  nothin' 
bad'll  happen  to  'em.  I'm  a  little  nervous, 
though.  'Cause — have  you  noticed,  Mister 
Lloyd? — they' s  just  thirteen  pigs  in  that  pen." 

"  Aw,  thirteen  ain't  never  hurt  nobody  in  Ok- 
lahoma w,"  I  says.  And  I  whistled,  and  knocked 
on  wood. 

"Anyhow,  I'm  happy,"  she  goes  on,  "I'm 
better  fixed  than  I  been  f  er  a  coon's  age." 

"  The  eatin'-house  '11  buy  ev'ry  one  of  these 
pigs  at  a  good  price,"  I  says,  leanin'  on  the  pen 
till  I  was  well  nigh  broke  in  two,  "  they  bein' 
pen-fed,  and  not  just  common  razor-backs. 
That'll  mean  fifty  dollars — mebbe  more.  Why, 
it's  like  findin'  it ! " 

"  These  and  the  chickens,"  she  says,  "  '11  pay 
that  balance,  and "  (her  voice  broke,  kinda, 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  123 

and  she  looked  over  to  where  pore  little  Willie 
was  tryin'  to  play  injine  all  by  hisself )  "  with- 
out the  help  of  no  man." 

I  looked  up  at  the  Butte.  Was  that  black 
speck  the  sheriff?  And  wasn't  his  heart  a-bustin' 
fer  her?  Wai,  it  shore  was  a  fool  sittyway- 
tion! 

;<  The  section-hands  is  tumble  tickled  about 
these  pigs,"  continues  Mrs.  Bridger.  "  They 
come  over  this  mornin'  t'  see  how  the  fambly 
was  doin',  and  they  named  the  hull  litter,  begin- 
nin'  with  Carmelita,  and  ending'  with  Polky 
Dot." 

You  couldn't  'a'  blamed  nobody  fer  bein' 
proud  of  them  little  pigs.  They  was  smarter  'n 
the  dickens,  playin'  'round,  and  kickin'  up  they 
heels,  and  squee-ee-eeliri '.  All  black  and  white 
they  was,  too,  and  favoured  they  maw  strong. 
Ev'ry  blamed  one  had  a  pink  snoot  and  a  kink 
in  its  tail,  and  reg'lar  roily  buckshot  eyes.  And 
fat! — say,  no  josh,  them  little  pigs  was  so  fat 
they  had  double  chins — just  one  chin  right  after 
another — from  they  noses  plumb  back  to  they 
hind  laigs! 

But  you  never  can  gamble  on  t'-morra.   And 


124  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

the  widda,  countin'  as  she  did  on  them  pigs,  had 
to  find  that  out.  A-course,  if  she'd  been  a'  Irish 
lady,  she'd  V  just  natu'lly  took  to  ownin'  a 
bunch  of  hawgs,  and  she'd  'a'  likely  penned  'em 
closter  to  the  house.  Then  nothin'  would  'a'  hurt 
'em.  Again,  mebbe  it  would — if  the  hull  thing 
that  happened  next  was  accidentally  a-purpose. 
And  I  reckon  that  shore  was  the  truth  of  it. 

But  I'm  a-goiny  too  fast. 

It  was  the  mornin'  after  the  Fourth  of  July. 
'(That  was  why  I  was  in  town.)  I  was  in  the 
Arnaz  bunk-house,  pullin'  on  my  coat,  just  afore 
daylight,  when,  all  of  a  suddent,  right  over 
Rogers's  Butte,  somethin'  popped.  Here,  acrosst 
the  sky,  went  a  red  ball,  big,  and  as  bright  as  if 
it  was  on  fire.  As  it  come  into  sight,  it  had  a 
tail  of  light  a-hangin'  to  it.  It  dropped  at  the 
foot  of  the  butte. 

First  off,  I  says,  "More  celebratin'."  Next, 
I  says,  "Curry!" — and  streaked  it  fer  the 
widda's. 

'Fore  I  was  half-way,  I  heerd  hollerin' — the 
scairt  hollerin*  of  women  and  kids.  Then  I 
heerd  the  grumble  of  men's  voices.  I  yelled  my- 
self, hopin'  some  of  the  boys  'd  hear  me,  and 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  125 

f  oiler.  "Help!  help!"  I  let  out  at  the  top  of 
my  lungs,  and  brung  up  in  Mrs.  Bridger's  yard. 

It  was  just  comin'  day,  and  I  could  see  that 
section-gang  all  collected  t'gether,  some  with 
picks,  and  the  rest  with  heavy  track  tools.  All 
the  greaser  women  was  there,  too,  howlin'  like  a 
pack  of  coyotes.  Whilst  Mrs.  Bridger  had  the 
kid  in  her  arms,  and  her  face  hid  in  his  little 
dress. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  screeched — had  t' 
screech  t'  git  heerd. 

The  cholos  turned  towards  me.  '(Say!  You 
talk  about  mean  faces!)  "Diablo!"  they  says» 
shakin'  them  track  tools. 

Wai,  it  shore  looked  like  the  Ole  Harry  'd 
done  it!  'Cause  right  where  the  pig-pen  used  to 
was,  I  could  see  the  top  of  a  grea-a-at,  whoppin* 
rock,  half  in  and  half  outen  the  ground,  and 
smokin3  hot.  Pretty  nigh  as  big  as  a  box-car,  it 
was.  Wai,  as  big  as  a  wagon,  anyhow.  But 
neither  hide  'r  hair  of  them  pigs ! 

I  walked  'round  that  stone. 

"  My  friend,"  I  says  to  the  section-boss,  "  the 
maw-pig  made  just  thirteen.  It's  a  proposition 
you  cain't  beat." 


126  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

Them  cholos  was  all  quiet  now,  and  actin'  as 
keerful  as  if  that  rock  was  dynamite.  Queer  and 
shivery,  they  was,  about  it,  and  it  kinda  give  me 
the  creeps. 

Next,  they  begun  pointin'  up  to  the  top  of  the 
Butte! 

I  seen  what  was  comin'.  So  I  used  my  haid — 
quick,  so's  to  stave  off  trouble.  "  Mebbe,  boys," 
I  says,  lookin*  the  ground  over  some  more, 
" — mebbe  they  was  a  cyclone  last  night  to  the 
north  of  here,  and  this  blowed  in  from  Kansas." 

The  section-boss  walked  'round,  studyin'.  "  I'm 
from  Missoura,"  he  says,  "  and  it  strikes  me  that 
this  rock  looks  kinda  familiar,  like  it  was  part 
iron.  Now,  mebbe  they's  been  a  thunderin'  big 
£<rplosion  in  the  Ozark  Mountains.  But,  Mrs. 
Bridger,  as  a  native  son  of  the  ole  State,  I  don't 
want  to  advise  you  to  sue  fer  da " 

I  heerd  them  cholos  smackin'  they  lips.  I 
looked  where  they  was  lookin',  and  here,  a-comin* 
lickety-split,  was  the  sheriff! 

That  section-boss  wras  as  good-natured  a  fel- 
ler as  ever  lived,  and  never  liked  t'  think  bad 
of  no  man.  But  the  minute  he  seen  Bergin  racin* 
down  off  en  that  Butte,  he  believed  like  the  peons 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  127 

did.  He  turned  t'  me.  "By  George!"  he  says 
— just  like  that. 

Wai,  sir,  that  "  By  George  "  done  it.  Soon  as 
the  Mexicans  heerd  him  speak  out  what  they 
thought,  they  set  up  a  Comanche  yell,  and,  with 
the  whites  of  they  eyes  showin'  like  a  nigger's, 
they  made  towards  the  sheriff  on  the  dead  run. 

He  kept  a-comin'.  Most  men,  seein'  a  passel 
of  locoed  greasers  makin'  towards  'em  with  pick- 
axes, would  'a'  turned  and  run,  figgerin'  that 
leg-bail  was  good  enough  fer  them.  But  the 
sheriff,  he  wasn't  scairt. 

A  second,  and  the  Mexicans  'd  made  a  sur- 
round. He  pulled  his  gun.  They  jerked  it  outen 
his  hand.  He  throwed  'em  off. 

I  drawed  my  weapon. 

Just  then— "Sheriff!  sheriff!"  '(It  was  the 
widda,  one  hand  helt  out  towards  him.) 

A  great  idear  come  to  me  then.  I  put  my  best 
friend  back  into  my  pocket.  "  I  won't  interfere 
fer  a  while  yet,"  I  says  to  myself.  "  Mebbe  this 
is  where  they'll  be  a  show-down." 

"  Cupid,"  says  Bergin,  "what's  the  matter?" 

I  fit  my  way  to  him.  "  They  think  you  throwed 
this  rock,  here,"  I  answers. 


128  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

'  The  low-down,  ornery,  lay-in-the-sun-and- 
snooze  good-fer-nothin's  is  likely  t'  think  'most 
any  ole  thing,"  he  says.  "  Pedro,  let  go  my  arm." 

Just  then,  one  of  the  cholos  come  runnin'  up 
with  a  rope ! 

The  section-boss  seen  things  was  gittin'  pretty 
serious.  He  begun  to  wrastle  with  the  feller  that 
had  the  rope.  Next,  all  the  women  and  kids  set 
up  another  howlin',  Mrs.  Bridger  cryin'  the 
worst.  But  I  wasn't  ready  to  play  my  last  card. 
I  stepped  out  in  front  of  the  gang  and  helt  up 
my  hand. 

"  Boys,"  I  says ; "  boys!  Give  the  man  a  chanst 
t'  talk.  Why,  this  rock  ain't  like  the  rocks  on  the 
Butte." 

"  You  blamed  id  jits! "  yells  Bergin.  "  Use  you' 
haids!  How  could  I  'a'  hefted  the  darned 
thing?" 

"  Aw,  he  couldn't  'a'  done  it  I "  '(This  from  the 
widda,  mind  y', — hands  t'gether,  and  comin' 
clost.)1 

:<  Thank  y',  little  woman,"  says  the  sheriff. 

^(Say!  that  was  better.) 

But  the  cholos  wasn't  a-foolin' — they  was  in 
dead  earnest.  Next  minute,  part  of  'em  grabbed 


He  pulled  Jus  gun,  they  jerked  it  outen  his  hand ' 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  129 

Bergin,  got  that  rope  'round  him,  and  begun 
draggin'  him  towards  a  telegraph  pole. 

I  was  some  anxious,  but  I  knowed  enough  to 
hole  back  a  while  more. 

"Aw,  boys,"  begged  the  widda,  droppin" 
Willie  and  runnin'  'longside,  "  don't  hurt  him ! 
dont!  What  does  the  pigs  matter?" 

"  I'll  discharge  ev'ry  one  of  you,"  says  the 
section-boss. 

"  Boys,"  I  begun  again,  re  niohy  should  this 
gent  want  to  harm  this  lady.  Why,  I  can  tell 
you " 

Pedro  Garcia  stuck  his  black  fist  into  my  face. 
"  He  lof  her,"  he  says,  "  and  she  say  no.  So  he 
iss  revenge  hisself."  (Say!  the  grammar  they 
use  is  plumb  fierce.) 

"  He  iss  revenge  hisself! "  yells  the  rest  of  the 
bunch.  Then  they  all  looked  at  the  widda. 

"  Boys,"  she  sobs,  "  I  ain't  never  refused  him. 
Fer  a  good  reason — he  ain't  never  ast  me." 

(The  cholos,  they  just  growled.) 

:{  What?  "  I  ast,  turnin'  on  Bergin  like  I  was 
hoppin'.  "  You  love  her,  and  yet  you  ain't  never 
ast  her  to  many  you?  Wai,  you  blamed  bottle 
of  ketchup,  you  oughta  die  I " 


130  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

"How  could  I  ast  her?"  begun  the  sheriff. 

"  She  plumb  hates  the  sight  of  me." 

"I  don't!  I  don't!"  sobs  the  widda.  "Mister 

Lloyd  knows  that  ain't  so.  Willie  and  me,  we — 
_,,, j» 

"  Y'  see? "  I  turned  to  the  Mexicans.  "  He 
loves  her;  she  loves  him.  We're  a-goin'  to  have  a 
weddin',  not  a  hangin'." 

'  The  stone — he  iss  revenge,"  says  Pedro. 

'  The  stone,"  I  answers,  "  come  outen  the  sky. 
It's  a  mete'rite." 

"  I  felt  it  hit! "  cries  the  widda. 

Wai,  you  couldn't  expect  a  Mexican  t'  swaller 
that.  So  we'd  no  more'n  got  the  words  outen  our 
mouths  when  they  begun  to  dance  'round  Bergin 
again  with  the  halter. 

Wai,  how  do  you  think  it  come  out? 

Mebbe  you  figger  that  Mrs.  Bridger  drawed 
a  knife  and  sa-a-aved  him,  'r  I  pulled  my  gun 
and  stood  there,  tellin'  'em  they  'd  only  hang  the 
sheriff  over  my  dead  body.  But  that  ain't  the 
way  it  happened.  Xo,  ma'am.  This  is  how: 

'Round  the  bend  from  towards  Albuquerque 
come  the  pay-car.  Now,  the  pay-car,  she  stops 
just  one  minute  fer  ev'ry  section-hand,  and  them 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  131' 

section-hands  was  compelled  to  git  into  line  and 
be  quick  about  it,  'r  not  git  they  money.  So  they 
didn't  have  no  spare  time.  They  let  go  of  Ber- 
gin's  rope  and  run — the  section-boss  leadin'. 

The  sheriff,  he  slung  the  rope  to  one  side — and 
the  widda  goes  into  his  arms.  "  Little  woman,"  he 
says,  lookin'  down  at  her,  "  I'll — I'll  be  a  good 
father  to  the  boy."  Then  he  kissed  her. 

(Wai,  that's  about  all  you  could  reas'nably  ex- 
pect from  Bergin.) 

Next  thing,  he  borraed  my  gun  and  just  kinda 
happened  over  towards  the  pay-car.  And  when 
a  cholo  got  his  time  and  left  the  line,  he  showed 
him  the  way  he  was  to  go.  And  you  bet  he 
minded! 

Wai,  things  come  out  fine.  A  big  museum  in 
Noo  York  bought  that  rock.  (If  you  don't  be- 
lieve it,  just  go  to  that  museum  and  you'll  see 
it  a-settin'  out  in  front — big  as  life.)  A-course, 
Mrs.  Bridger  got  a  nice  little  pile  of  money  fer 
it,  and  paid  Curry  the  balance  she  owed  him. 
Then,  the  sheriff  got  Mrs.  Bridger! 

And  the  bunch  that  didn't  git  Her?  Wai,  the 
bunch  that  didn't  git  her  just  natu'lly  got  left! 


CHAPTER    FIVE 
THINGS    GIT    STARTED    WRONG 

to  the  day  of  the  sheriff's  weddin',  I  reckon  I 
was  about  the  happiest  feller  that's  ever  been  in 
these  parts.  Gee  1  but  I  was  in  high  spirits !  It'd 
be  Macie's  and  my  turn  next,  I  figgered,  and  if 
the  ole  man  didn't  like  it,  he  could  just  natu'Uy 
lump  it.  So  when  I  walked  through  Briggs,  why, 
I  hit  both  sides  of  the  street,  exac'ly  as  if  I  was 
three  sheets  in  the  wind. 

But — this  was  one  time  when  you'  friend 
Cupid  was  just  a  little  bit  too  previous.  And  I 
want  to  say  right  here  that  no  feller  needs  to 
think  he's  the  hull  shoot  in' -match  with  a  gal,  and 
has  the  right-a-way,  like  a  wild-cat  ingine  on  a* 
open  track,  just  'cause  she's  ast  him  to  write  in 
her  autograph-album.  It  don't  mean  such  a 
blamed  lot,  neither,  if  his  picture  is  stuck  'long- 
side  of  hern  on  top  of  the  organ.  Them  signs 
is  encouragin',  a-course;  but  he'd  best  take  his 
coat  off  and  git  to  work.  Even  when  she's  give 

133 


Alec  Lloyd,    Cowpuncher  133 

all  the  others  the  G.  B.,  and  has  gone  to  church 
with  him  about  forty  Sunday  evenin's,  hand 
runnin',  and  has  allus  saved  him  the  grand  march 
and  the  last  waltz  at  the  Fireman's  Ball,  and 
mebbe  six  'r  seven  others  bysides,  why,  even  then 
it's  a  toss-up.  Yas,  ma'am.  It  took  hard  knocks 
t'  learn  me  that  they's  nothin'  dead  certain  short 
of  the  parson's  "  amen." 

Y'  see,  you  can  plug  a'  Injun,  and  kick  a 
dawg,  and  take  a  club  to  a  mule;  but  when  it's 
a  gal,  and  a  feller  thinks  a  turrible  lot  of  her, 
and  she's  so  all-fired  skittish  he  cain't  manage 
her,  and  so  eludin'  he  cain't  find  her  no  two  times 
in  the  same  place,  what's  he  goin'  to  do?  Wai, 
they  ain't  no  reg'lar  way  of  proceedin' — ev'ry 
man  has  got  to  blaze  his  own  trail. 

But  I  couldn't,  and  that  was  the  hull  trouble. 
I  know  now  that  when  it  come  to  dealin'  with 
Mace,  I  shore  was  a  darned  softy.  That  little 
Muggins  could  twist  me  right  'round  her  ringer 
—and  me  not  know  it!  One  minute,  she'd  pal- 
laver  me  fer  further  orders,  whilst  I'd  look  into 
them  sweet  eyes  of  hern  till  I  was  plumb  dizzy; 
the  next,  she'd  be  cuttin'  up  some  dido  'r  other 
and  leadin'  me  a'  awful  chase. 


134  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Then,  mebbe,  I'd  git  sore  at  her,  and  think 
mighty  serious  about  shakin'  the  Bar  Y  dust 
ofFen  my  boots  fer  good.  "  Cupid,"  I'd  say  to 
myself,  "  git  you'  duds  t'gether,  and  do  you' 
blankets  up  in  you'  poncho." 

Just  about  then,  here  she  come  lopin'  home 
from  town,  her  hoss  cuttin'  up  like  Sam  Hill, 
and  her  a-settin'  so  straight  and  cute.  She'd  look 
towards  the  bunk-house,  see  me,  motion  me  over 
with  her  quirt,  and — wal,  a-course,  I'd  go. 

I  made  my  first  big  beefsteak  at  the  very  be- 
ginnin'.  Somehow  'r  other,  right  from  the  minute 
we  had  our  confidential  talk  t'gether  back  of  Sil- 
verstein's,  that  last  night  of  the  Medicine  Show. 
I  got  it  into  my  fool  haid  that  I  as  good  as  had 
her,  and  that  all  they  was  left  to  be  did  was  t'  git 
'round  the  ole  man.  Wal,  this  idear  worked  fine 
as  long  as  we  was  so  busy  with  Bergin's  courtin'. 
But  when  the  sheriff  was  hitched,  and  me  and  the 
little  gal  got  a  recess,  my!  my!  but  a  heap  of 
things  begun  t'  happen! 

They  started  off  like  this :  The  parson  wanted 
money  fer  t'  buy  some  hymn-books  with.  So  he 
planned  a'  ice-cream  social  and  entertainment, 
and  ast  Mace  to  go  down  on  the  program  fer 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  135 

a  song.  She  was  willin' ;  I  was,  too.  So  far,  ev'ry- 
thin'  smooth  as  glare-ice. 

But  fer  a  week  afore  that  social,  they  was  a 
tumble  smell  of  gasoline  outside  the  sittin'-room 
of  the  Bar  Y  ranch-house.  That's  'cause  Doctor 
Bugs  come  out  ev'ry  day — to  fetch  a  Goldstone 
woman  from  the  up-train.  (That  blamed  sulky 
of  hisn  'd  been  stuck  t'gether  with  flour  paste  by 
now,  y'  savvy,  and  was  in  apple-pie  order.) 
After  the  woman  'd  git  to  the  ranch-house,  why, 
the  organ  'd  strike  up.  Then  you  could  hear 
Macie's  voice — doin',  " do,  ray,  me"  Next,  she'd 
break  loose  a-singin'.  And  pretty  soon  the  doc 
and  the  woman  'd  go. 

Wai,  I  didn't  like  it.  Y'  see,  I've  alms  noticed 
that  if  a  city  feller  puts  hisself  out  fer  you  a  hull 
lot,  he  expects  you  t'  give  him  a  drink,  'r  vote 
fer  him,  'r  loan  him  some  money.  And  why  was 
Bugsey  botherin'  t'  make  so  many  trips  to  the 
Bar  Y?  /  knowed  what  it  was.  It  was  just  like 
Hairoil  'd  said — he  wanted  my  Macie. 

One  night,  I  says  to  her,  "  What's  that  Gold- 
stone  woman  doin'  out  here  so  much,  honey?  " 

"  Givin'  me  music  lessons,"  she  answers. 

"  I  know,"  I  says.  "  But  you  don't  need  no 


136  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

lessons.  You  sing  good  enough  t'  suit  me  right 

now." 

:<  Wai,  I  don't  sing  good  enough  t'  suit  my- 
self. And  bein'  as  I'm  on  that  program " 

"  Wai,  just  the  same,"  I  cut  in,  "  I  don't  like 
that  Simpson  hangin'  'round  here." 

"Alec,"  she  come  back,  stiff enin'  right  up, 
"  it's  my  place  to  say  who  comes  into  this  ranch- 
house,  and  who  don't." 

"But,  look  a-here!  Folks  '11  think  you  like 
him  better'n  you  do  me." 

"Aw,  that's  crazy." 

"  It  ain't.  And  I  won't  have  him  'round." 

Then,  she  got  turrible  polite.  "  I'm  sorry, 
Mister  Lloyd,"  she  says,  "  but  I'm  a-goin'  t'  take 
my  lessons." 

Wai,  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  she  did — right 
up  t'  the  very  day  of  the  social. 

"All  right,"  I  says  to  myself;  "but  just  wait 
till  this  shindig  is  over."  And  when  Mace  and 
her  paw  started  fer  town  that  evenin',  I  sad- 
dled up  my  bronc  and  f  ollered  'em. 

Simpson  was  kinda  in  charge  of  that  social. 
He  got  up  and  made  a'  openin'  speech,  sayin' 
they  was  lots  of  ice-cream  and  cake  fer  sale,  and 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  137 

he  hoped  we'd  all  shell  out  good.  Then,  he  begun 
t'  read  off  the  program. 

"  We  have  with  us  t'night,"  he  says,  "  one  of 
the  finest  and  best  trained  voices  in  this  hull 
'United  States — a  voice  that  I  wouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  it  'd  be  celebrated  some  day." 

I  looked  over  at  Mace.  She  was  gittin'  pink. 
Did  he  mean  her? 

"And,"  Simpson  goes  on,  "the  young  lady 
that  owns  it  is  a-goin'  t'  give  us  the  first  number." 
And  he  bowed — Shore  enough! 

Wai,  she  sung.  It  was  somethin'  about  pop- 
pies, and  it  was  awful  sad,  and  had  love  in  it. 
I  liked  it  pretty  nigh  as  good  as  The  Mohawk 
tVale.  But  the  ole  man,  he  didn't.  And  when  she 
was  done,  and  settin'  next  him  again,  he  said  out 
loud,  so's  a  lot  of  people  heerd  him,  "I'm  not 
stuck  on  havin'  you  singin'  'round  'fore  ev'ry- 
body.  And  that  Noo  York  Doc  is  too  blamed 
fresh." 

"Paw!"  she  says,  like  she  was  ashamed  of 
him. 

"  I  mean  it,"  he  says,  and  jerked  his  haid  to 
one  side. 

Wai,  y'  know,  Mace  got  her  temper  offen 


138  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

him,  and  never  handed  it  back.  So  all  durin'  the 
social,  they  had  it — up  and  down.  I  couldn't 
ketch  all  what  they  said — only  little  bits,  now  and 
then.  "  Cheek,"  I  heard  the  boss  say  oncet,  and 
Mace  come  back  with  somethin'  about  not  bein" 
"  a  baby." 

Afterwards,  when  the  ole  man  was  out  gittin* 
the  team,  she  come  over  t'  me,  lookin'  awful  ap- 
pealin'.  "Alec,"  she  says,  like  she  expected  I'd 
shore  sympathise  with  her,  "  did  you  hear  what 
paw  said?  Wasn't  it  mean  of  him? " 

I  looked  down  at  my  boots.  Then,  I  looked 
straight  at  her.  "Mace,"  I  says,  "he's  right. 
Mebbe  you'll  git  mad  at  me,  too,  fer  sayin'  it. 
But  that  Simpson's  tryin'  t'  cut  me  out — and 
so  he's  givin'  you  all  this  taffy  about  your  voice." 

"Taffy!"  she  says,  fallin'  back  a  step. 
"  Then  you  didn't  like  my  singin'." 

"  Why,  yas,  I  did,"  I  answers,  f ollerin'  along 
after  her.  "  I  thought  it  was  fine" 

But  she  only  shook  her  haid — like  she  was  hurt 
— and  dumb  into  the  buckboard. 

I  worried  a  good  deal  that  night.  The  more  I 
turned  over  what  Simpson  'd  said,  the  more  T 
wondered  if  I  knowed  all  they  was  to  his  game. 


A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  139 

What  was  he  drivin'  at  with  that  "  celebrated  " 
business?  Then,  too,  it  wouldn't  do  Mace  no 
good  t'  be  puffed  up  so  much.  She'd  been  'lected 
the  prettiest  gal.  Now  she'd  been  tole  she  had 
a  way-up  voice.  'Fore  long,  she'd  git  the  big 
haid. 

"  Wai,  I'll  put  a  quietus  on  it,"  I  says.  And, 
next  mornin',  when  I  seen  her,  I  opened  up  like 
this:  "  Honey,  I  reckon  we've  waited  just  about 
long  enough.  So  we  git  married  Sunday  week." 

"  That's  too  soon,"  she  answers.  "  We  got  t' 
git  paw  on  our  side.  And  I  ain't  got  no  new 
clothes." 

:<  We'll  splice  first  and  ast  him  about  it  after- 
wards. And  when  you're  Mrs.  Alec,  I'll  git  you 
all  the  clothes  you  want."  (Here's  where  I  clean 
fergot  the  advice  she  give  me  that  time  in  the 
sheriff's  case:  "In  love  affairs,"  was  what  she 
said,  "  don't  never  try  t'  drive  nobody.") 

"  But,  Alec, "  she  begun. 

"  Sunday  week,  Mace,"  I  says.  "  We'U  talk 
about  it  t'-night." 

But  that  night  Monkey  Mike  come  nigh  blow- 
in'  his  lungs  out;  and  I  waited  under  the  cotton- 
woods  till  I  was  asleep  standin' — and  no  Macie. 


140  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Wasn't  it  cal'lated  t'  make  any  man  lose  his 
temper?  Wai,  I  lost  mine.  And  when  we  went 
in  town  to  a  party,  a  night  'r  two  afterwards,  the 
hull  business  come  to  a  haid. 

I  was  plumb  sorry  about  the  blamed  mix-up. 
But  no  feller  wants  t'  see  his  gal  dance  with  a 
kettle-faced  greaser.  I  knowed  she  was  goin* 
to  f  er  the  reason  that  I  seen  Mexic  go  over  her 
way,  showin'  his  teeth  like  a  badger  and  lettin* 
his  cigareet  singe  the  hair  on  his  dirty  shaps — 
shaps,  mind  y',  at  a  school-house  dance!  .Then  I 
seen  her  nod. 

Our  polka  come  next.  And  when  we  was  about 
half  done,  I  says,  "  They's  lemonade  outside, 
honey.  Let's  git  a  swig."  But  outside  I  didn't 
talk  no  lemonade.  "  Did  Mexic  ast  you  to  dance 
with  him? "  I  begun. 

"  Wai,  he's  one  of  our  boys,"  she  answers ; 
"  and  I'm  going  to  give  him  a  schottische." 

"  No,  you  ain't"  I  come  back.  "  I  won't  stand 
ferit."  ' 

"Yas,  I  am,  Alec  Lloyd," — she  spoke  de- 
termined,— "  and  please  don't  try  to  boss  me." 

I  shut  up  and  walked  in  again.  Mexic  was 
italkin'  to  the  school-ma'am — aw,  he's  got  gall! 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  14-1 

I  shassayed  up  and  took  him  a  little  one  side. 
"Mexic,"  I  says,  soft  as  hair  on  a  cotton-tail, 
"  it's  gittin'  on  towards  mornin'  and,  natu'lly, 
Macie  Sewell  ain't  feelin'  just  rested;  so  I  would- 
n't insist  on  that  schottische,  if  I  was  you." 

"Why?"heast. 

"  I  tole  you  why,"  I  says ;  "  but  I'll  give  you 
another  reason:  You'  boots  is  too  tight." 

We  fussed  a  little  then.  Didn't  amount  to 
much,  though,  'cause  neither  of  us  had  a  gun. 
|(Y'  see,  us  punchers  don't  pack  guns  no  more 
'less  we're  out  ridin'  herd  and  want  t'  pick  off  a 
coyote;  'r  'less  we've  had  a  little  trouble  and  're 
lookin'  f  er  some  one. )  But  I  managed  to  change 
that  greaser's  countenance  consider'ble,  and  he 
bit  a  chunk  outen  my  hand.  Then  the  boys  pulled 
us  separate. 

They  was  all  dead  agin  me  when  I  tole  'em 
what  was  the  matter.  They  said  the  other  gals 
danced  with  Mexic,  and  bein'  Macie  was  the  Bar 
Y  gal,  she  couldn't  give  him  the  go-by  if  she 
took  the  rest  of  the  outfit  f  er  pardners. 

Just  the  same,  I  made  up  my  mind  she  would- 
n't dance  with  that  greaser.  And  I  says  to  my- 
self, "  This  is  where  you  show  you're  a-goin'  to 


142  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

run  the  Lloyd  house.  She'll  like  you  all  the  bet- 
ter if  you  git  the  upper  hand."  So  when  I  got 
her  coaxed  outside  again,  I  led  her  to  where  my 
bronc  was  tied.  She  liked  the  little  hoss,  and 
whilst  WTC  was  chinnin',  I  put  her  into  the  saddle. 
Next  minute,  I  was  on  behind  her,  and  the  bronc 
was  makin'  quick  tracks  fer  home. 

Wai,  sir,  she  was  madder'n  a  hen  in  a  thunder- 
shower.  She  tried  to  pull  in  the  bronc;  she 
twisted  and  scolted  and  cried.  Tole  me  she  hated 
me  like  arsenic. 

"Alec  Lloyd,"  she  says,  "after  t'night,  I'll 
never,  never  speak  to  you  again !  " 

When  we  rode  up  to  the  corral,  I  lifted  her 
down,  and  she  went  tearin'  away  to  the  house. 
The  ole  man  heerd  her  comin',  and  thought  she 
was  singin'.  He  slung  open  the  door  on  the 
porch. 

"Aw,  give  that  calf  more  rope!"  he  calls  out. 

Say!  she  went  by  him  like  a  streak  of  light- 
nin',  almost  knockin'  him  down.  And  the  door 
slammed  so  hard  you  could  'a'  heerd  it  plumb  t' 
Galveston. 

I  hung  'round  the  corral  fer  as  much  as  half 
a'  hour,  listenin'  to  the  pow-wow  goin'  on  at  the 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

house.  But  nobody  seemed  to  be  a-hollerin'  fer 
me  t'  come  in,  so  I  made  fer  the  straw.  "Aw, 
wal,"  I  says  to  myself,  "  her  dander  '11  cool  off 
t'-morra." 

But  the  next  day,  she  passed  me  by  without 
speakin'.  And  I,  like  a  sap-head,  didn't  speak 
neither.  I  was  on  my  high  boss, — wouldn't  speak 
till  she  did.  So  off  I  had  t'  go  to  Hasty  Creek 
fer  three  days — and  no  good-bye  t'  the  little 
gal. 

I  got  back  late  one  afternoon.  At  the  bunk- 
house,  I  noticed  a  change  in  the  boys.  They  all 
seemed  just  about  t'  bust  over  somethin' — not 
laughin',  y'  savvy,  but  anxious,  kinda,  and  achin* 
to  tell  news. 

Fin'lly,  I  went  over  to  Hairoil.  "  Pardner,"  I 
says,  "  spit  it  out." 

He  looked  up.  "  Cupid,"  he  says,  "  us  fellers 
don't  like  t'  git  you  stirred  up,  but  we  think  it's 
about  time  someone  oughta  speak — and  put  you 
next." 

"Next  about  what?"  I  ast.  The  way  he  said 
it  give  me  a  kinda  start. 

"We've  saw  how  things  was  a-goin',  but  we 
didn't  say  nothin'  to  you  'cause  it  wasn't  none 


144  A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

of  our  funeral.  Quite  a  spell  back,  folks  begun 
to  talk  about  how  crazy  Macie  Sewell  was  gittin' 
to  be  on  the  singin'  question.  It  leaked  out  that 
she'd  been  tole  she  had  a  Al  voice " 

"  It  ain't  no  lie,  neither." 

"And  that  her  warblin'  come  pretty  clost  to 
bein'  as  good  as  Melba's." 

"  It's  a  heap  better'n  Melba's." 

"  Also  "  — Hairoil  fidgited  some — "  you  know, 
a-course,  that  she's  been  tackin'  up  photographs 
of  op'ra  singers  and  actresses  in  her  room " 

"Wai,  what's  the  harm?" 

"And — and  practicin'  bows  in  front  of  a 
glass." 

I  begun  t'  see  what  he  was  drivin'  at. 

"And  whilst  you  was  away,  she  had  a  talk 
with  the  station-agent — about  rates  East." 

"  Hairoil!  You  don't  mean  it!  "  I  says.  I  tell 
y',  it  was  just  like  a  red-hot  iron  'd  been  stuck 
down  my  wind-pipe  and  was  a-burnin'  the  lower 
end  off  en  my  breast-bone! 

"  I'm  sorry,  ole  man."  He  reached  out  a  hand. 
"  But  we  thought  you  oughta  know."  And  then 
he  left  me. 

So  that  was  it!  And  she'd  been  keepin'  me  in 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  145 

the  dark  about  it  all — whilst  ev'ry  fence  post 
from  the  Bar  Y  t'  Briggs  knowed  what  was  hap- 
penin'I  Wai,  I  was  mad  clean  through. 

Then  I  begun  t'  see  that  I'd  been  a  blamed 
fool.  A  fine,  high-strung  gal! — and  I'd  been 
orderin'  her  'round  like  I  owned  her!  And  I'd 
gone  away  on  that  ride  without  tryin'  t'  make  up. 
W»l,  I'd  druv  her  to  it. 

I  started  fer  the  house. 

As  I  come  clost>  acrosst  the  curtains,  back'ards 
and  for'ards,  back'ards  and  for'ards,  I  could  see 
her  shadda  pass.  But  when  I  rapped,  she  pulled 
up ;  then,  she  opened  the  door. 

"  Honey,"  I  says,  "  can  I  come  in?  " 

Her  eyes  was  red;  she'd  been  cryin'.  But,  aw! 
she  was  just  as  nice  and  sweet  as  she  could  be. 
'  Yas,  Alec,  come  in,"  she  says. 

"  Little  gal,"  I  begun,  "  I  want  t'  tell  you  I 
done  wrong  to  kick  about  that  greaser,  yas,  I 
did.  And  fetchin'  you  home  that-a-way  wasn't 
right." 

"  Never  mind — I  wanted  t'  come  anyhow." 

"  Thank  y'  fer  bein'  so  kind.  And  I  ain't 
never  goin'  to  try  to  run  you  no  more." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  No  gal  likes  t'  be  bossed." 


146  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"Just  give  me  another  chanst.  Just  fergive 
me  this  oncet." 

She  smiled,  her  eyes  shinin'  with  tears.  "  I 
do,"  she  says ;  "  Alec,  I  do." 

The  next  second,  I  had  her  helt  clost  in  my 
arins,  and  her  pretty  haid  was  agin  my  breast. 
Aw,  it  was  like  them  first  days  once  more.  And 
all  the  hurt  went  of  a  suddent,  and  the  air  cleared 
kinda — as  if  a  storm'd  just  passed.  My  little 
gal! 

Pretty  soon,  (I  was  settin'  on  the  organ-stool, 
and  she  was  standin'  in  front  of  me,  me  holdin* 
her  hands)  I  says,  "  They  is  one  thing — now  that 
I've  tole  you  I  was  wrong — they  is  just  one 
thing  I'm  goin'  to  ast  you  t'  do  as  a  favour.  If 
you  do  it,  things  '11  go  smooth  with  us  from  now, 
on.  It's  this,  little  gal:  Cut  out  that  Doctor 
Bugs." 

"  I  know  how  you  don't  like  him,"  she  an- 
swers; "  and  you're  right.  'Cause  he  shore  played 
you  a  low-down  trick  at  that  Medicine  Show. 
But,  Alec,  he  brings  my  music-teacher." 

'''  Wai,  honey,  what  you  want  the  teacher  fer?  " 

She  stopped,  and  up  went  that  pert,  little  haid. 
"  You  recollect  what  Doctor  Simpson  said  about 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 
my  voice  that  night  at  the  social?"  she  begun. 
"  This  teacher  says  the  same  thing" 

Like  a  flash,  I  recalled  what  Hairoil  'd  tole  me. 
*'  Mace,"  I  says,  "  I  want  t'  ast  you  about  that. 
A-course,  I  know  it  ain't  so.  But  Hairoil  says 
you  got  pictures  of  actresses  and  singers  tacked 
up  in  you'  room — just  one  'r  two." 

'  Yas,"  she  answers ;  "  that's  straight.  What 
about  it?" 

"  It's  all  right,  I  guess.  But  the  ole  son-of-a- 
gun  got  the  idear,  kinda,  that  you  was  thinkin' 
some  of — of  the  East." 

"  Alec,"  she  says,  frank  as  could  be,  "  yester- 
day Doctor  Simpson  got  a  letter  from  Noo  York. 
He'd  writ  a  big  teacher  there,  inquirin'  if  I  had 
a  chanst  t'  git  into  op'ra — grand  op'ra — and  the 
teacher  says  yas." 

I  couldn't  answer  nothin'.  I  just  sit  there, 
knocked  plumb  silly,  almost,  and  looked  at  a  big 
rose  in  the  carpet.  Noo  York! 

She  brung  her  hands  t'gether.  "Why  not?" 
she  answers.  "  It'll  give  me  the  chanst  I  want. 
If  I'm  a  success,  you  could  come  on  too,  Alec. 
Then  we'd  marry,  and  you  could  go  along  with 
me  as  my  manager." 


148  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

I  looked  at  her.  I  was  hurt — hurt  plumb  t'  the 
quick,  and  a  little  mad,  too.  "  I  see  myself! "  I 
says.  "  Travel  along  with  you'  poodle.  Huh ! 
And  you  wearin'  circus  clothes  like  that  Miss 
Marvellous  Murray,  and  lettin'  some  feller  kiss 
you  in  the  play.  Macie," — and  I  meant  what  I 
said — "  you  can  just  put  the  hull  thing  right  to 
one  side.  I — won't — have — it!" 

She  set  her  lips  tight,  and  her  face  got  a  deep 
red. 

"  So  this  is  the  way  you  keep  you'  word ! " 
she  says.  "A  minute  ago,  you  said  you  wasn't 
goin'  t'  try  to  run  me  no  more.  Wai, — you  wasn't 
in  earnest.  I  can  see  that.  'Cause  here's  the  same 
thing  over  again." 

The  door  into  the  ole  man's  bedroom  opened 
then,  and  he  come  walkin'  out.  "  You  two  make 
a  thunderin'  lot  of  noise,"  he  begun.  "  What  in 
the  dickens  is  the  matter? " 

Mace  turned  to  him,  face  still  a-blazin'. 
"Alec's  allus  tryin'  t'  run  me,"  she  answers, 
"  and  I'm  gittin'  plumb  tired  of  it." 

Sewell's  mouth  come  open.  "  Run  you,"  he 
says.  "Wai,  some  while  back  he  done  all  the 
runnin'  he's  ever  a-goin'  t'  do  in  this  house.  'And 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  149 

he  don't  do  no  more  of  it.  By  what  right  is  he 
a-interferin'  now?" 

I  got  to  my  feet.  "  This  right,  boss :  "  I  says, 
"  I  love  Made." 

He  begun  to  kinda  swell — gradual.  And  if  a 
look  could  'a'  kilt  me,  I'd  V  keeled  over  that 
second. 

"You — love — Made!"  he  says  slow.  "Wai, 
I'll  be  darned  if  you  haven't  got  cheek! " 

"  Sorry  you  look  at  it  that  way,  boss." 

"And  so  you  got  the  idear  into  that  peanut 
haid  of  yourn  " — he  was  sarcastic  now — "  that 
you  could  marry  my  gall  Honest,  I  ain't  met  a 
bigger  id  jit  'n  you  in  ten  years." 

"  No  man  but  Mace's  paw  could  say  that  t'  me 
safe." 

"Why,"  he  goes  on,  "you  could  just  about 
be  President  of  the  United  States  as  easy  as  you 
could  be  the  husband  of  this  gal.  M'  son,  I  think 
I  tole  you  on  one  occasion  that  you'd  play  Cupid 
just  oncet  too  many." 

"  That's  what  you  did." 

:<  This  is  it.  And,  also,  I  tole  you  that  the 
smarty  who  can  allus  bring  other  folks  t'gether 
never  can  hitch  hisself." 


150  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"  You  got  a  good  mem'ry,  Sewell." 

Mace  broke  in  then — feard  they'd  be  trouble, 
I  reckon.  "  Please  let's  cut  this  short,"  she  says. 
"  The  only  thing  I  want  Alec  to  remember  is  that 
I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  be  bossed  by  no  man." 

Sewell  patted  her  on  the  shoulder.  "That's 
my  gal  a-talkin'! "  he  says.  "  Bully  fer  you! " 

"  All  right,  Mace,"  I  says,  "  a-all  right "  And 
I  took  up  my  Stetson. 

The  ole  man  dropped  into  a  chair  and  begun  t* 
laugh.  (Could  laugh  now,  thinkin'  it  was  all  up 
'twixt  Mace  and  me.)  "Haw!  haw!  haw!"  he 
started  off,  slappin'  one  knee.  "  Mister  Cupid 
cain't  do  nothin'  fer  hisself !  "  Then  he  laid  back 
and  just  hollered,  slingin'  out  his  laig  with  ev'ry 
cackle;  and  pawin'  the  air  fin'lly,  he  got  so  short- 
winded.  "Aw,  lawdy!"  he  yelled;  "aw — I'll 
bust.  Mister  Cupid!  Whew!" 

I  got  hot.  "  You  found  a  he-he's  aig  in  a  haw- 
haw's  nest,"  I  begun.  "Wai,  I'll  say  back  to 
you  what  you  oncet  said  to  me:  Just  wait" 
•Then  I  faced  Macie.  "  All  right,  little  gal,"  I 
says  to  her,  "  I  s'pose  you  know  best.  Pack  you* 
duds  and  go  East — and  sing  on  the  stage  in  Noo 
York." 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  151 

The  ole  man  'd  stopped  laughin'  t'  listen.  Now 
he  sit  up  straight,  a  hand  on  each  arm  of  the 
chair,  knees  spread,  mouth  wider  open  Jn  ever, 
eyes  plumb  crossed.  "Go  East!"  he  repeats, 
" — sing ! — stage ! — Nbo  York ! " 

Mace  showed  her  sand,  all  right.  "  Yas,"  she 
answers;  "you  got  it  exac'ly  right,  paw — Noo 
York." 

He  riz  up,  face  as  white  as  anythin'  so  sun- 
baked can  look.  "  Git  that  crazy  idear  outen  you' 
brain  this  minute! "  he  begun.  "  I  won't  allow 
you  t'  stir  a  step!  The  stage!  Lawda-mighty! 
Why,  you  ain't  got  no  voice  fer  the  stage.  You 
can  only  squawk." 

It  was  mighty  pretty  t'  see  'em — father  and 
daughter — standin'  out  agin  each  other.  Alike 
in  temper  as  two  peas,  y'  savvy.  And  I  knowed 
somethin'  was  shore  goin'  to  pop. 

"Squawk!"  repeats  Mace.  (That  was  the 
finishin'  touch.)  "  I'll  just  show  you!  Some  day 
when  my  voice's  made  me  famous,  you'll  be 
sorry  fer  that.  And  you,  too,  Alec  Lloyd,  if  you 
do  think  my  voice  is  all  taffy.  I'll  show  you 
loth!" 

"Wai,"   Sewell  come  back,  "you  don't  use 


152  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

none  of  my  money  fer  t'  make  you'  show."  He 
was  pretty  nigh  screechin'. 

;<-Wait  till  I  ast  you  fer  it,"  she  says,  pert 
haid  up  again.  "  Keep  you'  money.  I  can  earn 
my  own.  I  ain't  scairt  of  work." 

And  just  like  she  was,  in  the  little,  white  dress 
she  used  t'  meet  me  in — she  up  and  walked 
out! 

Now,  it  was  the  ole  man's  turn  t'  walk  the 
floor.  "Noo  York!"  he  begun,  his  eyes  dartin' 
fire.  "  Did  y}  ever  hear  such  a  blamed  fool  propo- 
sition !  Doc  Simpson  is  responsible  fer  that." 

"  It's  been  goin'  on  fer  quite  a  spell,"  I  says. 
"  But  I  didn't  know  how  far  till  just  afore  you 
come  in.  Simpson,  a-course,  is  the  man." 

That  second,  clickety — clickety — clickety — 
click! — a  boss  was  a-passin'  the  house  on  the 
dead  run.  We  both  looked.  It  was  that  bald- 
faced  bronc  of  Macie's,  makin'  fer  the  gate  like 
a  streak  of  lightnin'.  And  the  little  gal  was  in 
the  saddle. 

"She's  goin',  boss,"  I  says.  (The  bald-face 
was  haided  towards  Briggs.) 

ef  Let  her  go,"  says  Sewell.  "  Let  her  ride  off 
her  mad." 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  153 

"  Boss,"  I  says,  "  I'm  t'  blame  fer  this  kick-up. 
Yas,  I  am." 

And  I  begun  t'  walk  the  floor. 

:<  Wai,  no  use  bellyachin'  about  it,"  he  answers. 
"  But  you're  allus  a-stickin'  in  that  lip  of  yourn. 
And — you'll  recall  what  I  oncet  said  concernin' 
the  feller  that  sticks  in  his  lip."  (I  could  see  it 
made  him  feel  better  t'  think  he  had  the  bulge  on 
me.)' 

"  She  won't  come  back,"  I  goes  on.  '(I  felt 
pretty  bad,  I  can  tell  y'.)  "  No,  boss,  she  won't. 
I  know  that  gal  better'n  you  do.  She's  gone  t' 
Briggs,  and  she'll  stay." 

"  She'll  be  back  in  a'  hour.  Rose  cain't  keep 
her,  and " 

But  I  was  outen  the  room  and  makin'  fer  the 
bunk-house.  When  I  got  there,  I  begun  t'  change 
my  clothes. 

Hairoil  was  inside.  (He'd  been  a-listenin'  to 
the  rumpus,  likely.)  "  Don't  go  off  half-cocked," 
he  says  to  me. 

"  Cupid's  drunk,"  says  Monkey  Mike. 
"  Somebody's  hit  him  with  a  bar-towel." 

But  I  knowed  what  I  was  a-goin'  to  do.  Two 
wags  of  a  dawg's  tail,  and  I  was  in  the  house 


154  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

again,  facin'  the  ole  man.  "  Sewell,"  I  says,  "  I 
want  my  time." 

"Where  you  goin',  Cupid?"  he  ast,  reachin' 
into  his  britches-pocket. 

I  took  my  little  forty  dollars  and  run  it  into 
my  buckskin  sack.  "  I'm  a-goin'  into  Briggs,"  I 
says,  "  t'  see  if  I  can  talk  some  sense  into  that 
gal's  haid." 

The  ole  man  give  a  kinda  sour  laugh.  "  Mebbe 
you  think  you  can  bring  her  home  on  hossback 
again,"  he  says.  "Wai,  just  remember,  if  she 
turns  loose  one  of  her  tantrums,  that  you  poured 
out  this  drench  you'self.  It's  like  that  there  fel- 
ler in  Kansas."  And  he  give  that  laugh  of  hisn 
again.  "  Ever  heerd  about  him?  " 

"  No,"  I  says ;  "  no,  what  about  you'  Kansas 
feller?" 

:<  Wai," — the  boss  pulled  out  a  plug  of  t'bacca, 
— "  he  bought  a  house  and  lot  f  er  five  hunderd 
dollars.  The  lot  was  guaranteed  to  raise  any- 
thin',  and  the  house  was  painted  the  prettiest  kind 
of  a  green.  Natu'lly,  he  thought  he  owned  'em. 
Wai,  things  went  smooth  till  one  night  when  he 
was  away  from  home.  Then  a  blamed  cyclone 
come  along.  Shore  enough,  that  lot  of  hisn  could 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  155 

raise.  It  raised  plumb  into  the  air,  house  and  all, 
and  the  hull  business  blowed  into  the  neighbour- 
in'  State! 

" '  What  goes  up  must  come  down,'  says  the 
feller.  And  knowin'  which  way  that  cyclone 
travelled,  he  started  in  the  same  Erection,  hot- 
foot. He  goes  and  goes.  Fin'lly  he  comes  to  a 
ranch  where  they  was  a  new  barn  goin'  up.  It  was 
a  pinto  proposition.  Part  of  it  wasn't  painted, 
and  some  of  it  was  green.  He  stopped  to  demand 
portions  of  his  late  residence. 

'  The  man  he  spoke  to  quit  drivin'  nails  just 
long  enough  to  answer.  '  When  you  Kansas  folks 
git  up  one  of  them  baby  cyclones  of  yourn,'  he 
says,  *  fer  Heaven's  sake  have  sand  enough  to  ac- 
cept the  hand-out  it  gives  yV  ' 

"  I  savvy  what  you  mean,"  I  says  to  the  ole 
man,  "  but  you  f ergit  that  in  this  case  the  moc- 
casin don't  fit.  Another  man's  behind  this,  boss. 
The  little  gal  has  ketched  singin'-bugs.  And 
when  she  gits  enough  cash " 

"  How  can  she  git  cash? " 
'  The  eatin'-house  is  sliort  of  help,  Sewell. 
She  can  git  a  job  easy — passin'  fancy  Mulligan 
to  the  pilgrims  that  go  through." 


156  Alec  Lloyd,    Cowpuncher 

Say!  that  knocked  all  the  sarcastic  laughin' 
outen  him.  A'  awful  anxious  look  come  into  his 
face.  "Why — why,  Cupid,"  he  begun.  "You 
don't  reckon  she'd  go  do  that!  " 

Just  then,  Clickety — clickety — clickety — click 
a  hoss  was  comin'  along  the  road.  We  both  got 
to  a  winda.  It  was  that  bald-faced  bronc  of 
Macie's  again,  haid  down  and  tail  out.  But  the 
bridle-reins  was  caught  'round  the  pommel  t' 
keep  'em  from  gittin'  under  foot,  and  the  little 
gal's  saddle — was  empty  1 


CHAPTER  SIX 
WHAT  A  LUNGER  DONE 

"Sweet  is  the  vale  where  the  Mohawk  gently 

glides 
On  its  fair,  windin'  way  to  the  sea — " 

It  was  Macie  Sewell  singin'.  Ole  Number  201 
Jd  just  pulled  outen  Briggs  City,  haided  south- 
west with  her  freight  of  tenderfeet,  and  with 
Ingineer  Dave  Reynolds  stickin'  in  his  spurs 
to  make  up  lost  time.  The  passengers  'd  had 
twenty-five  minutes  fer  a  good  grubbin'-up  at 
the  eatin'-house,  and  now  the  little  gal  was  help- 
in'  the  balance  of  the  Harvey  bunch  to  clear  off 
the  lunch-counter.  Whilst  she  worked,  she  was 
chirpin'  away  like  she'd  plumb  bust  her  throat. 

I  was  outside,  settin'  on  a  truck  with  Up- State. 
He  was  watchin'  acrosst  the  rails,  straight  afore 
him,  and  listenin',  and  I  could  see  he  was  swal- 
lerin'  some,  and  his  eyes  looked  kinda  like  he'd 
been  ridin'  agin  the  wind.  When  I  shifted  my 
position,  he  turned  the  other  way  quick,  and 
coughed — that  pore  little  gone-in  cough  of  hisn. 

157 


158  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Wai,  I  felt  pretty  bad  myself ;  and  I  seen  some- 
thin'  tumble  was  wrong  with  Up-State — I 
couldn't  just  make  out  what.  Pretty  soon,  I  put 
my  hand  on  his  arm,  and  I  says,  "  I  don't  want 
t'  worm  anythin'  outen  you,  ole  man;  I  just  want 
t'  say  I'm  you'  friend." 

'!  Cupid,"  he  whispers  back,  "  it's  The  Mohawk 
IVale." 

(He  allus  whispered,  y*  savvy;  couldn't  talk 
out  loud  no  more,  bein'  so  turrible  shy  on 
lung.) 

"Is  that  a  bony  fido  place?"  I  ast,  "'r  just 
made  up  a-purpose  fer  the  song?  " 

"  It's  my  country,"  he  whispers,  slow  and 
husky,  and  begun  gazin'  acrosst  to  the  mesquite 
again.  "And,  Cupid,  it's  a  beauiifu\  country!" 

"I  reckon,"  I  says.  "It's  likely  got  Okla- 
homaw  skinned  t'  death." 

Up- State,  he  didn't  answer  that — too  polite. 
Aw,  he  was  a  gent,  too,  same  as  the  parson. 

Minute  'r  so,  Macie  struck  up  again- 

f(  And  dearer  by  far  than  all  charms  on  earth 

byside, 
Is  that  bright,  rollm'  river  to  me" 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  159 

Up- State  lent  over,  elbows  on  his  knees,  face 
in  his  hands,  and  begun  tremblin' —  Why,  y* 
know,  even  a  hoss  '11  git  homesick.  Now,  I  brung 
a  flea-bitten  mare  from  down  on  the  lower  Cim- 
arron  oncet,  and  blamed  if  that  little  son-of-a- 
gun  didn't  hoof  it  all  the  way  back,  straighter 
'n  a  string!  Yas,  ma'am.  And  so,  a-course,  it's 
natu'al  fer  a  man.  Wai,  I  ketched  on  to  how 
things  was  with  Up- State,  and  I  moseyed. 

I  was  at  the  deepot  pretty  frequent  them 
days — waitin'.  Macie  hadn't  talked  to  me  none 
yet,  and  mebbe  she  wouldn't.  But  I  was  on  hand 
in  case  the  notion  'd  strike  her. 

Her  hangin'  out  agin  me  and  her  paw  tick- 
led them  eatin'-house  Mamies  tumble.  They 
thought  her  idear  of  earnin'  her  own  money,  and 
then  goin'  East  to  be  a'  op'ra  singer,  was  just 
grand. 

But  the  rest  of  the  town  felt  diff 'rent.  And 
behind  my  back  all  the  women  folks  and  the  boys 
that  knowed  me  was  sayin'  it  was  a  darned  shame. 
They  figgered  that  a  gal  gone  loco  on  the  stage 
proposition  wouldn't  make  no  kind  of  a  wife  fer 
a  cow-punch.  "  Would  she  camp  down  in  Okla- 
homaw,"  they  says,  "  and  cook  three  meals  a  day, 


160  A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

and  wash  out  blue  shirts,  when  she's  set  on  git- 
tin'  up  afore  a  passel  of  highflyers  and  yelpin* 
'  Marguerite '?  Nixey." 

Next  thing,  one  day  at  Silverstein's,  here  come 
the  parson  to  me,  lookin'  worried.  "  Cupid,"  he 
says,  "  git  on  the  good  side  of  that  gal  as  quick 
as  ever  you  can — and  marry  her.  The  stage  is 
a'  awful  place  fer  a  decent  gal.  Keep  her  off  en 
it  if  you  love  her  soul.  And  if  I  can  help,  just 
whistle." 

I  said  thank  y',  but  I  was  f card  marryin'  was 
a  long  way  off. 

"  But,  Alec,"  goes  on  the  parson,  "  that  Simp- 
son has  gone  back  t'  Noo  York " 

"What?" 

"Yas.  He  put  all  his  doctor  truck  into  his 
gasoline  wagon  last  night  and  choo-chooed  outen 
town.  If  he's  there,  and  she  goes,  wal, — I  don't 
like  the  looks  of  it." 

"  I  don't  neither,  parson.  He's  crooked  as  a 
cow-path,  that  feller.  Have  you  tole  her  paw?'* 

"  No,  but  I  will,"  says  the  parson. 

I  went  over  to  the  deepot  again.  Havin'  done 
a  little  thinkin',  I  wasn't  so  scairt  about  Simpson 
by  now.  'Cause  why?  Wal,  y'  see,  I  kaowed 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  161 

Mace  didn't  have  no  money ;  ole  Sewell  wouldn't 
give  her  none ;  and  she  wasn't  the  kind  of  a  gal  t' 
borra.  So  it  was  likely  she'd  be  in  Briggs  fer 
quite  a  spell. 

I  found  Up- State  settin'  outside  the  eatin'- 
iiouse.  I  sit  down  byside  him.  Allus,  them  days, 
.whenever  I  come  in  sight  of  the  station,  he  was 
a-hangin'  'round,  y'  savvy.  He'd  be  on  a  truck, 
say,  'r  mebbe  on  the  edge  of  the  platform.  If  it 
was  all  quiet  inside  at  the  lunch-counter,  he'd  be 
watchin'  the  mesquite,  and  sorta  swingin'  his 
shoes.  But  if  Macie  was  singin',  he'd  be  all 
scrooched  over  with  his  face  covered  up — and 
pretty  quiet. 

When  Macie  sung,  it  was  The  Mohawk  Vale 
ev'ry  time.  Now,  that  seemed  funny,  bein'  she 
was  mad  at  me  and  that  was  my  f  av'rite  song. 
Then,  it  didn't  seem  so  funny.  One  of  the  eatin'- 
house  gals  tole  me,  confidential,  that  Up- State 
had  lots  of  little  chins  with  Macie  acrosst  the 
lunch-counter,  and  that  The  Mohawk  Vale  was 
"  by  request." 

/  didn't  keer.  Let  Up-State  talk  to  Her  as 
much  as  he  wanted  to.  He  couldn't  make  me 
jealous — not  on  you'  life!  I  wasn't  the  finest 


162  Alec  Lloydy  Cowpuncher 

lookin'  man  in  Oklahomaw,  and  I  wasn't  on  right 
good  terms  with  Mace.  But  Up- State — wal, 
Up-State  was  pretty  clost  t'  crossin'  the  Big 
Divide. 

All  this  time  not  a  word  'd  passed  'twixt  Macie 
and  her  paw.  The  ole  man  was  too  stiff-necked 
t'  give  in  and  go  to  her.  (He  was  figgerin'  that 
she'd  git  tired  and  come  home. )  And  Macie,  she 
wasn't  tired  a  blamed  bit,  and  she  was  too  stiff- 
necked  t'  give  in  and  go  t'  Sewell. 

Wal,  when  the  boss  heerd  about  Up- State  and 
Mace,  you  never  seen  a  man  so  sore.  He  said 
Up- State  was  aigin'  her  on,  and  no  white  man  'd 
do  that. 

Y'  see,  he  had  some  reason  fer  not  goin'  shucks 
on  the  singin'  and  actin'  breed.  We'd  had  two 
bunches  of  op'ra  folks  in  Briggs  at  diff'rent 
times.  One  come  down  from  Wichita,  and  was 
called  "The  Way  to  Ruin."  (Wal,  it  shore 
looked  its  name!)  The  other  was  "The  Wild 
West  Troupe "  from  Dallas.  This  last  wasn't 
West — it  was  from  Noo  York  direct — but  you 
can  bet  you'  boots  it  was  wild  all  right.  By 
thunder!  you  couldn't  'a'  helt  nary  one  of  them 
young  ladies  with  a  hoss-hair  rope ! 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  163 

But  fer  a  week  of  Sundays,  he  didn't  say 
nothin'  to  Up-State.  He  just  boiled  inside, 
kinda.  Then  one  day — when  he'd  got  enough 
steam  up,  I  reckon, — why,  he  opened  wide  and 
let  her  go. 

"  Up-State,"  he  hegun,  "  I'm  sorry  fer  you, 
all  right,  but " 

Up-State  looked  at  him.  "  Sewell,"  he  whis- 
pers, "  I  don't  want  no  man's  pity." 

;<  Listen  to  me,"  says  the  boss.  "  Macie's  my 
little  gal — the  only  child  I  got  left  now,  and  I 
warn  you  not  to  go  talkin'  actress  to  her." 

"  Don't  holler  'fore  you  git  hit,"  whispers  Up- 
State,  smilin*. 

The  boss  got  worse  mad  then.  "  Look  a-here," 
he  says,  "  don't  give  me  none  of  that.  You  know 
you  lie •" 

Up- State  shook  his  haid.  "  I'm  not  a  man  any 
more,  Sewell,"  he  whispers.  "I'm  just  what's 
left  of  one.  I  didn't  used  to  let  nobody  hand  out 
things  that  flat  to  me." 

I  stuck  in  my  lip.  (One  more  time  couldn't 
hurt.)  "Now,  Sewell,"  I  says,  "put  on  the 
brake." 

He  got  a  holt  on  hisself  then.  "  This  ain't  no 


164  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

josh  to  me,  Cupid,"  he  says.  (He  was  tremblin', 
pore  ole  cuss!)  "What  you  think  I  heerd  this 
mornin'  ?  Mace  ain't  makin'  enough  money  pass- 
in'  slumgullion  to  them  passenger  cattle  all  day, 
so  she's  a-goin'  over  to  Silverstein's  ev'ry  night 
after  this  to  fix  up  his  books.  I  wisht  now  I'd 
never  sent  her  t'  business  college." 
Just  then — 

"Sweet  is  the  vale  where  the  Mohawk  gently 

glides 
On  its  fair,  windin*  way  to  the  sea — " 

'Up- State  lent  over,  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  boss  looked  at  me.  I  give  a  jerk  of  my 
haid  to  show  him  he'd  best  go.  And  he  walked 
off,  grindin'  his  teeth. 

It  seemed  to  me  I  could  hear  Up- State  whis- 
perin'  into  his  fingers.  I  stooped  over.  "  What  is 
it,  pardner?  "  I  ast. 

"  It's  full  of  home,"  he  says,  "—it's  full  of 
home  I  Cupid!  Cupid!  "  (Darned  if  I  don't  wisht 
them  lungers  wouldn't  come  down  here,  anyhow. 
They  plumb  give  a  feller  the  misery.) 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  165 

Doc  Trowbridge  stopped  by  just  then.  "  How 
you  makin'  it  t'-day,  Up-State?  "  he  ast. 

Up- State  got  to  his  feet,  slow  though,  and 
put  a  hand  on  Billy's  shoulder.  "  The  next  sand- 
storm, ole  man,"  he  says;  "the  next  sand- 
storm." 

"  Up-State,"  says  Billy,  "  buck  up.  You  got 
more  lives'n  a  cat." 

"  No  show,"  Up-State  whispers  back. 

He  was  funny  that-a-way.  Now,  most  lung- 
ers fool  theyselves.  Allus  "  goin'  to  git  better," 
y'  savvy.  But  Up- State — he  knew. 

"  Come  over  to  my  tent  t'-night,"  he  goes  on 
to  Billy.  "  I  got  somethin'  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about." 

"  All  right,"  says  Billy.  "  Two  haids  is  bet- 
ter 'n  one,  if  one  is  a  sheep's  haid." 

After  supper,  I  passed  Silverstein's  two  'r 
three  times,  and  about  nine  o'clock  I  seen  Macie. 
She  was  'way  back  towards  the  end  of  the  store, 
a  lamp  and  a  book  in  front  of  her;  and  she  was 
a-workin'  like  a  steam-thrasher. 

Somehow  it  come  over  me  all  to  oncet  then  that 
she'd  meant  ev'ry  single  word  she  said,  and  that, 
sooner  'r  later — she  was  goin'.  Goin'.  And  I'd 


166  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

be  stayin'  behind.  I  looked  'round  me.  Say! 
Briggs  City  didn't  show  up  much.  "Without 
her"  I  says,  (they  was  that  red-hot-iron  feelin' 
inside  of  me  again)  " — without  her,  what  is  it? 
— the  jumpin'-off  place!  " 

Beyond  me,  a  piece,  was  Up-State's  tent.  A 
light  was  burnin'  inside  it,  too,  and  Doc  Trow- 
bridge  was  settin'  in  the  moonlight  by  the  open- 
in'.  Behind  him,  I  could  see  Up- State,  writin'. 

I  trailed  home  to  my  bunk.  But  you  can  under- 
stand I  didn't  sleep  good.  And  'way  late,  I  had 
a  dream.  I  dreamed  the  Bar  Y  herd  broke  fence 
and  stampeded  through  Briggs,  and  after  'em 
come  about  a  hunderd  bull- whackers,  all  a-layin' 
it  on  to  them  steers  with  the  flick  of  they  lashes 

-zip,  zip,  zip,  zip. 

Next  mornin,  I  woke  quick — with  a  jump, 
y'  might  say.  I  looked  at  my  nickel  turnip.  It 
was  five-thirty.  I  got  up.  The  sun  was  shinin', 
the  air  was  nice  and  clear  and  quiet  and  the  larks 
was  just  singin'  away.  But  outside,  along  the 
winda-sill,  was  stretched  a'  inch-wide  trickle  of 
sand! 

In  no  time  I  was  hoofin'  it  down  the  street. 
When  I  got  to  Up-State's  tent,  Billy  Trow- 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  167 

bridge  was  inside  it,  movin'  'round,  puttin'  stuff 
into  a  trunk,  and — wipin'  the  sand  outen  his  eyes. 

"  He  was  right?  "  I  says,  when  I  goes  in,  step- 
pin'  soft,  and  whisperin' — like  Up- State  'd  allus 
whispered.  Billy  turned  to  me  and  kinda  smiled, 
f er  aU  he  felt  so  all-fired  bad.  "  Yas,  Cupid,"  he 
says,  "  he  was  right.  One  more  storm." 

Just  then,  from  the  station — 

"Sweet  is  the  vale  where  the  Mohawk  gently 

glides 
On  its  fair,  windin3  way  to  the  sea — " 

Billy  walked  over  to  the  bed  and  looked  down. 
"  Up-State,  ole  man,"  he  says,  "  you're  a-goin* 
back  to  the  Mohawk." 

Up- State  left  two  letters  behind  him — one 
fer  me  and  one  fer  Billy.  The  doc  didn't  show 
hisn;  said  it  wouldn't  be  just  profeshnal — yet. 
But  mine  he  ast  me  to  read  to  the  boss. 

" Dear  Cupid"  it  run,  " ast  Mister  Sewell  not 
to  come  down  too  hard  on  me  account  of  what 
I'm  goin'  to  do  fer  Made.  The  little  gal  says 
she  wants  a  singin'  chanst  more'n  anythin'  else. 


168  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Wai.,  I'm  goin'  to  give  it  to  her.  You'll  find  a 
even  five  hunderd  in  green-backs  over  in  Silver- 
stein's  safe.  It's  hern.  Tell  her  I  want  she  should 
use  it  to  go  to  Noo  York  on  and  buck  the  op'ra 
game." 

Wai,  y'  see,  the  ole  man  'd  been  right  all  along 
— Up- State  was  sidin'  with  Mace.  Somehow 
though,  I  couldn't  feel  hard  agin  him  fer  it.  I 
knowed  that  she'd  go — help  'r  no  help. 

But  Sewell,  he  didn't  think  like  me,  and  I 
never  seen  a  man  take  on  the  way  he  done. 
Crazy  mad,  he  was,  swore  blue  blazes,  and  said 
things  that  didn't  sound  so  nice  when  a  feller  re- 
membered that  Up- State  was  face  up  and  flat  on 
his  back  fer  keeps — and  goin'  home  in  the  bag- 
gage-car. 

I  tell  you,  the  boys  was  nice  to  me  that  day. 
"The  little  gal  won't  fergit  y',  Cupid,"  they 
says,  and  "  Never  you  mind,  Cupid,  it'll  all  come 
out  in  the  wash." 

I  thanked  'em,  a-course.  But  with  Macie  fixed 
to  go  (far's  money  went),  and  without  makin' 
friends  with  me,  neither,  what  under  the  shinin' 
sun  could  chirk  me  up?  Wai,  nothin'  could. 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 
THE    BOYS    PUT   THEY    FOOT    IN    IT 

:<  WAL,  Hairoil,"  I  says,  "  I  shore  am  a'  un- 
lucky geezer!  Why,  d'  you  know,  I  don't  hardly 
dast  go  from  one  room  to  another  these  days  f er 
fear  I'll  git  my  lip  pinched  in  the  door." 

Hairoil,  he  clawed  thoughtful.  "  You  and 
the  boss  had  a  talk  oncet  on  the  marryin'  ques- 
tion," he  begun.  "  It  was  out  at  the  Bar  Y." 
(We  was  settin'  on  a  truck  at  the  deepot  again, 
same  as  that  other  time.)  "A-course,  I  don't 
want  t'  throw  nothin'  up,  but — you  tole  him  then 
that  when  it  come  you'  own  time,  you  wouldn't 
have  no  trouble.  Recollect  braggin'  that-a- 
way?" 

'  Yas,"  I  answers,  meeker'n  Moses.  "  But 
Hairoil,  that  was  'fore  I  met  Macie." 

"  So  it  was,"  he  says.  Then,  after  a  minute, 
"  I  s'pose  nothin'  could  keep  her  in  Briggs  much 
longer." 

I  shook  my  haid.  "  The  ole  man  won't  let  her 

169 


170  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

fetch  a  dud  off  en  the  ranch,  and  so  she's  havin' 
a  couple  of  dresses  made.  I  figger  that  when 
they  git  done,  she'll — she'll  go." 

"  How  long  from  now? " 

"About  two  weeks — accordin'  to  what  Mollie 
Brown  tole  me." 

"  Um,"  says  Hairoil,  and  went  on  chawin'  his 
cud.  Fin'lly,  he  begun  again,  and  kinda  like  he 
was  feelin'  'round.  "Don't  you  think  Mace 
Sewell  is  took  up  with  the  romance  part  of  this 
singin'  proposition?"  he  ast.  "That's  my  idear. 
And  I  think  that  if  she  was  showed  that  her  and 
you  was  also  a  romance,  why,  she'd  give  up  goin* 
to  Noo  York.  Now,  it  might  be  possible  to — to 
git  her  t'  see  things  right — if  they  was  a  little 
scheme,  say." 

I  got  up.  "No,  Hairoil,"  I  says,  "no  little 
scheme  is  a-goin'  t'  be  played  on  Made.  A-course, 
I  done  it  fer  Rose  and  Billy;  but  Macie, — wal, 
Macie  is  diff 'rent.  I  want  t'  win  her  in  the  open. 
And  I'll  be  jiggered  if  I  stand  fer  any  under- 
hand work." 

"  It  needn't  t'  be  what  you'd  call  underhand," 
answers  Hairoil. 

"Pardner,"  I  says,  "don't  talk  about  it  no 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  171 

more.  You  make  me  plumb  nervous,  like  crumbs  ; 
in  the  bed." 

And  so  he  shut  up. 

But  now  when  I  recall  that  conversation  of 
ourn,  and  think  back  on  what  begun  t'  happen 
right  afterwards,  it  seemed  blamed  funny  that  I 
didn't  suspicion  somethin'  was  wrong.  The  par- 
son was  mixed  up  in  it,  y*  savvy,  and  the  sheriff, 
and  Billy  Trowbridge — all  them  three  I'd  helped 
out  in  one  way  'r  another.  And  Hairoil  was  in 
it,  too — and  he'd  said  oncet  that  he  was  a-goin' 
t'  marry  me  off.  So  why  didn't  I  ketch  on !  Wai, 
I  shore  was  a  yap ! 

Next  day,  Hairoil  didn't  even  speak  of  Mace. 
I  thought  he'd  clean  f ergot  about  her.  He  was 
all  excited  over  somethin'  else — the  'lection  of 
a  sheriff.  And  'fore  he  got  done  tellin'  me  about 
it,  I  was  some  excited,  too — fer  all  I  was  half 
sick  account  of  my  own  troubles. 

The  'lection  of  a  sheriff,  y'  savvy,  means  a' 
awful  lot  to  a  passel  of  cow-punchers.  We  don't 
much  keer  who's  President  of  the  United  States. 
(We  been  plumb  covered  with  proud  flesh  these 
six  years,  though,  'cause  Roos'velt,  he's  a 
puncher.)  We  don't  much  keer,  neither,  who's 


172  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

Gov'ner  of  Oklahomaw.  But  you  can  bet  you' 
bottom  dollar  it  makes  a  heap  of  difference 
[who's  our  sheriff .  If  you  git  a  friend  in  office, 
you  can  breathe  easy  when  you  have  a  little  dis- 
agreement; if  you  don't,  why,  you  git  'lected — 
t'  the  calaboose! 

Now,  what  Hairoil  come  and  represented  to 
me  was  this:  That  Hank  Shackleton,  editor  of 
The  Briggs  City  Eye-Opener,  'd  been  lickerin' 
up  somethin'  tumble  the  last  twenty- four  hours. 

"  Hank?  "  I  says  to  Hairoil,  plumb  surprised. 
"Why,  I  didn't  know  he  ever  took  more  'n  a 
glass." 

"  A  glass! "  repeats  Hairoil  disgusted.  "  He 
ain't  used  no  glass  this  time;  he  used  a  funnel. 
!And  you  oughta  see  his  paper  that  come  out 
this  mornin'.  It's  full  on  the  one  side,  where  a 
story's  allus  printed,  but  the  opp'site  page  looks 
like  somethin*  'd  hit  it — O.  K.  far's  advertise- 
ments go,  but  the  news  is  as  skurse  as  hen's  teeth, 
'and  not  a  word  about  Bergin" 

"  You  don't  say!  But — what  does  that  matter, 
Hairoil?" 

"  What  does  that  matter!  Why,  if  Hank  gits 
it  into  his  haid  to  keep  on  tankin'  that- a- way  (till 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncker  173 
he  plumb  spills  over,  by  jingo!)  the  Eye-Opener 
won't  show  up  again  fer  a  month  of  Sundays. 
Now,  we  need  it,  account  of  this  'lection,  and  the 
way  Hank  is  actin'  has  come  home  to  roost  with 
ev'ry  one  of  us.  You  been  worried,  Cupid,  and  , 
you  ain't  noticed  how  this  sheriff  sittywaytion  is. 
The  Goldstone  Tarantula  is  behind  the  .Repub- 
lican candidate,  Walker " 

<e  Walker!  That  critter  up  fer  sheriff?" 

"  Yas.  And,  a-course,  [Hank's  been  behind 
Bergin  t'  git  Mm  re'lected  fer  the  'leventh  time." 

<f  I  know,  and  Bergin's  got  t'  win.  Why,  Ber- 
gin's the  only  fit  man." 

"Wai,  now,  if  our  paper  cain't  git  in  and 
crow  the  loudest,  and  tell  how  many  kinds  of  a 
swine  the  other  feller  is,  how's  Bergin  goin'  t' 
win?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Neither  do  7.  (You  see  how  ticklish  things 
is?)  Wai,  here's  Hank  in  no  shape  to  make  any 
kind  of  a  newspaper  fight,  but  just  achin'  t' 
use  his  gun  on  anybody  that  comes  nigh  him. 
Why,  I  never  seen  such  a  change  in  a  man  in 
all  my  born  life!" 

I  was  surprised  some  more.    I  didn't  know 


174  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

Hank  packed  a  gun.  He  was  a  darned  nice  cuss, 
and  ev'rybody  shore  liked  him,  and  he'd  never 
been  laid  up  fer  repairs  account  of  somethin' 
he'd  put  in  his  paper.  He  was  square,  smart's  a 
steel-trap,  and  white  clean  through.  Had  a  hand- 
shake that  was  hung  on  a  hair-trigger,  and  a 
smile  so  winnin'  that  he  could  coax  the  little  prai- 
rie-dawgs  right  outen  they  holes. 

Hairoil  goes  on.  "  I  can  see  Briggs  City  eatin* 
the  shucks  when  it  comes  'lection-day,"  he  says, 
"  and  that  Goldstone  man  cabbagin'  the  sheriff's 
office.  Buckshot  Milliken  tole  me  this  mornin' 
that  the  Tarantula  called  Bergin  '  a  slouch '  last 
week;  'so  low-down  he'd  eat  sheep,'  too,  and 
'  such  a  blamed  pore  shot  he  couldn't  hit  the  side 
of  a  barn.' ' 

"  That's  goin'  too  far." 

"  So  /  say.  I  wanted  Bergin  t'  go  over  to 
Goldstone  and  give  'em  a  sample  of  his  gun- 
play that'd  interfere  with  the  printin'  of  they 
one-hoss  sheet.  But  Bergin  said  it  wras  no  use 
— the  Tarantula  editor  is  wearin'  a  sheet-iron 
thing-um-a-jig  acrosst  his  back  and  his  front, 
and  has  to  use  a  screw-driver  t'  take  off  his 
clothes." 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  175 

"  The  idear  of  Hank  actin'  like  a  id  jit  when 
the  'lection  depends  on  him!"  I  says.  "Wai, 
things  is  outen  kilter." 

"  Sh-sh-sh ! "  says  Hairoil,  lookin'  round  quick. 
"Be  awful  keerful  what  you  say  about  Hank. 
We  don't  want  no  shootin'-scrape  here" 

But  I  didn't  give  a  continental  who  heerd  me. 
I  was  sore  t'  think  a  reg'lar  jay-hawk  'd  been 
put  up  agin  our  man!  Say,  that  Walker  didn't 
know  beans  when  the  bag  was  open.  His  name 
shore  fit  him,  'cause  he  couldn't  ride  a  boss  fer 
cold  potatoes.  And  he  was  the  kind  that  gals 
think  is  a  looker,  and  allus  stood  ace-high  at  a 
dance.  Lately,  he'd  been  more  pop'lar  than  ever. 
When  we  had  that  little  set-to  with  Spain, 
Walker  hiked  out  to  the  Coast;  and  didn't  show 
up  again  till  after  the  California  boys  come  home 
from  Manila.  Then,  he  hit  town,  wearin'  a'  army 
hat,  and  chuck  full  of  all  kinds  of  stories  about 
the  Philippines,  and  how  he'd  been  in  turrible 
fights.  That  got  the  girls  travelin*  after  him  two- 
forty.  Why,  at  Goldstone,  they  was  all  a-goin' 
with  him,  seems  like. 

I  didn't  want  him  fer  sheriff,  you  bet  you' 
boots.  He  wasn't  no  friend  to  us  Briggs  City 


176  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

boys  any  more  'n  we  was  to  him.  And  then,  none 
of  us  believed  that  soldier  hand-out.  Y'  know,  we 
had  a  little  bunch  of  fellers  from  this  section 
that  went  down  t'  Cuba  with  Colonel  Roos'velt 
and  chased  the  Spanish  some.  Wai,  y'  never 
heerd  them  crowin'  'round  about  what  they  done. 
And  this  Walker,  he  blowed  too  much  tj  be 
genuwine. 

"If  he's  'lected  sheriff,  it's  goin'  t'  be  risky 
business  gittin'  in  to  a'  argyment  with  anybody," 
I  says.  "  He'd  just  like  t'  git  one  of  us  jugged. 
Say,  what's  goin'  to  be  did  fer  Hank? " 

:'Wal,"  answers  Hairoil,  mouth  screwed  up 
anxious,  "  we're  in  a  right  serious  fix.  So  they's 
to  be  a  sorta  convention  this  afternoon,  and  we're 
a-goin'  t'  cut  out  whisky  whilst  the  session  lasts." 

"I'll  come.    Walker  fer  sheriff!  Huh!" 

"  Good  fer  you!  So  long." 

"  So  long." 

We  made  fer  the  council-tent  at  three  o'clock 
— the  bunch  of  us.  The  deepot  waitin'-room  was 
choosed,  that  bein',  as  the  boys  put  it,  "  the  most 
respectable  public  place  in  town  that  wouldn't 
want  rent."  Wai,  we  worked  our  jaws  a  lot, 
goin'  over  the  sittywaytion  from  start  to  finish. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  177 

"  Gents  let's  hear  what  you-all  got  to  say,"  begun 
Chub  Flannagan,  standin'  up.  Doc  Trowbridge 
was  next.  Cf  I  advise  you  to  rope  Shackleton," 
he  says,  "  and  lemme  give  him  some  boss  liniment 
t'  put  him  on  his  laigs."  '(We  was  agreed  that  the 
hull  business  depended  on  the  Eye-Opener. ,)  But 
the  rest  of  us  didn't  favour  Billy's  plan.  So  we 
ended  by  pickin'  a  'lection  committee.  No  dues, 
no  by-laws,  no  chairman.  But  ev'ry  blamed  one 
of  us  a  sergeant-at-arms  with  orders  t'  keep  Hank 
Shackleton  outen  the  saloons.  'Cause  why?  If 
he  could  buck  up,  and  stay  straight,  and  go  t' 
gittin'  out  the  Eye-Opener,  Bergin  'd  shore  win 
out. 

"  Gents,"  says  Monkey  Mike,  "  soon  as  ever 
Briggs  hears  of  our  committee,  we're  a-goin'  t' 
git  pop'lar  with  the  nice  people,  'cause  we're 
tryin'  t'  help  Hank.  And  we're  also  goin'  t'  git 
a  black  eye  with  the  licker  men  account  of  shut- 
tin'  off  the  Shackleton  trade.  A-course,  us 
punchers  must  try  t'  make  it  up  t'  the  thirst-par- 
lours fer  the  loss,  though  I  admit  it  '11  not  be  a' 
easy  proposition.  But  things  is  desp'rsite.  If 
iWalker  gits  in,  we'll  have  a  nasty  deputy-sheriff 
sent  up  here  t'  cross  us  ev'ry  time  we  make  a 


178  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

move.  We  got  t'  work,  gents.  You  know  how  I 

feel.  By  thunder!  Bergin  treated  me  square  all 

right  over  that  Andrews  fuss."   (Y5  see,  Mike's 

a  grateful  little  devil,  if  he  does  ride  like  a  fool 

Englishman.) 

"Wai,"  says  Buckshot  Milliken,  "who'll  be 
the  first  sergeant?  I  call  fer  a  volunteer." 

All  the  fellers  just  kept  quiet — but  they  looked 
at  each  other,  worried  like. 

"  Don't  all  speak  to  oncet,"  says  Buckshot. 

I  got  up.  "  I'm  willin'  t'  try  my  hand,"  I  says. 

te  Thank  y',  Cupid."  It  was  Buckshot,  earnest 
as  the  dickens.  "  But — but  we  hope  you're  goin' 
to  go  slow  with  Hank.  Don't  do  nothin'  fool- 
ish." 

"  What  in  thunder  's  got  into  you  fellers? "  I 
ast,  lookin'  at  'em.  "  Is  Hank  got  the  hydro- 
phoby?" 

"  You  ain't  saw  him  since  he  begun  t'  drink,  I 
reckon,"  says  Chub. 

"  No." 

fe  Walf  then." 

By  this  time,  I  was  so  all-fired  et  up  with  curi- 
osity t'  git  a  look  at  Hank  that  I  couldn't  stand 
it  no  more.  So  I  got  a  move  on. 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  179 

Hank  is  a  tumble  tall  feller,  and  thin  as  a  ram- 
rod. He's  got  hair  you  could  flag  a  train  with, 
and  a  face  as  speckled  as  a  turkey  aig.  And 
when  I  come  on  to  him  that  day,  here  he  was, 
stretched  out  on  the  floor  of  Dutchy's  back  room, 
mouth  wide  open,  and  snorin'  like  a  rip-saw. 

I  give  his  shoulder  a  jerk.  "  Here,  Hank,"  I 
says,  "  wake  up  and  pay  f er  you'  keep.  What's 
got  into  you,  anyhow.  My  goodness  me ! " 

He  opened  his  eyes — slow.  Next,  he  sit  up, 
and  fixed  a'  awful  ugly  look  on  me.  "  Wa-a-al? " 
he  says. 

"My  friend,"  I  begun,  "Briggs  City  likes 
you,  and  in  the  present  case  it's  a-tryin'  t'  make 
'lowances,  and  not  chalk  nothin'  agin  y',  but " 

"  Blankety  blank  Briggs  City!  "  growls  Hank. 
"  Ish  had  me  shober  and  ish  had  me  drunk,  and 
neither  way  don't  shoot." 

"  Now,  ole  man,  I  reckon  you're  wrong,"  I 
says.  "  But  never  mind,  anyhow.  Just  try  t* 
realise  that  they  's  a  'lection  comin',  and  that  you 
got  t'  help." 

'  Walkersh  a  friend  of  mine,"  says  Hank,  and 
laid  down  again. 

Wai,  I  didn't  want  t'  be  there   all  day.  I 


180  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

wanted  t'  have  some  time  to  myself,  y'  savvy,  so 
's  I  could  keep  track  of  Mace.  So  I  grabbed  him 
again. 

This  whack,  he  got  up,  straddlin'  his  feet  out 
like  a  mad  tarantula,  and  kinda  clawin'  the  air. 
They  wasn't  no  gun  visible  on  him,  but  he  was 
loaded,  all  right.  Had  a  revolver  stuck  under  his 
belt  in  front,  so  's  the  bottom  of  his  vest  hid  it. 

I  jerked  it  out  and  kicked  it  clean  acrosst  the 
floor.  Then  I  drug  him  out  and  started  fer  the 
bunk-house  with  him.  Gosh!  it  was  a  job! 

Wai,  the  pore  cuss  didn't  git  another  swalla 
of  forty-rod  that  day;  and  by  the  next  mornin' 
he  was  calm  and  had  a'  appetite.  So  three  of  us 
sergeant-at-arms  happened  over  to  see  him.  Bill 
Rawson  was  there  a'ready,  keepin'  him  comp'ny. 
And  first  thing  y'  know,  I  was  handin'  that  editor 
of  ourn  great  big  slathers  of  straight  talk. 

ff  I  know  what  you  done  fer  me,  Cupid,"  says 
Hank.  "  And  I'm  grateful, — yas,  I  am.  But  let 
me  tell  you  that  when  I  git  started  drinkin',  I 
cain't  stop — never  do  till  I'm  just  wored  out  'r 
stone  broke.  And  I  git  mean,  and  on  the  fight, 
and  don't  know  what  I'm  doin'.  But,"  he  con- 
tinues (his  face  was  as  long  as  you'  arm),  "if 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  181 

you-all  '11  fergive  me,  and  let  this  spree  pass, 
why,  I'll  go  back  t'  takin'  water  at  the  railroad 
tank  with  the  Sante  Fee  ingines." 

"  Hank,"  I  says,  "  you  needn't  t'  say  nothiri' 
further.  But  pack  no  more  loads,  m'  son,  pack 
no  more  loads.  And  try  t'  git  out  another  Eye- 
Opener.  Not  only  is  this  sheriff  matter  pressin', 
hut  the  lit'rary  standin'  of  Briggs  City  is  at 
stake." 

"  That's  dead  right,"  he  says.  "  And  I'll  git 
up  a'  issue  of  the  Opener  pronto — only  you  boys 
'11  have  t'  help  me  out  some  on  the  news  part.  I 
don't  recollect  much  that's  been  happenin* 
lately." 

Wai,  things  looked  cheerf uller.  So,  'fore  long, 
I  was  back  at  the  deepot,  settin'  on  a  truck  and 
watchin'  the  eatin'-house  windas,  and  the  boys — 
Bergin  and  all — was  lined  up  'longside  Dutchy's 
bar,  celebratin'. 

But  our  work  was  a  long,  1-o-n-g  way  from 
bein'  done.  Hank  kept  sober  just  five  hours. 
Then  he  got  loose  from  Hairoil  and  made  fer  a 
thirst-parlour.  And  when  Hairoil  found  him 
again,  he  was  f  uller'n  a  tick. 

"  I'm  blue  as  all  git  out  about  what's  hap- 


182  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

pened,"  says  Hairoil.  "But  I  couldn't  help  it; 
it  was  just  rotten  luck.  And  I  hear  that  when  the 
Tarantula  come  out  yesterday  it  had  a  hull  col- 
umn about  that  Walker,  callin'  him  a  brave  ex- 
soldier  and  the  next  sheriff  of  Woodward 
County." 

"And  just  ten  days  'fore  'lection!"  chips  in 
Bill  Rawson.  "  Cupid,  it's  root  hawg  'r  die! " 

"  That's  what  it  is,"  I  says.  "  Wai,  I'll  go  git 
after  Hank  again." 

He  was  in  Dutchy's,  same  as  afore.  But  not 
so  loaded,  this  time,  and  a  blamed  sight  uglier. 
Minute  he  seen  me,  his  back  was  up !  "  Here,  you 
snide  puncher,"  he  begun,  "you  tryin'  to  arrest 
me?  Wai,  blankety  blank  blank,"  (fill  it  in  the 
worst  you  can  think  of — he  was  beefin'  somethin' 
awful)  "  I'll  have  you  know  that  I  ain't  never 
'lowed  no  man  t'  put  the  bracelets  on  me."  And 
his  hand  went  down  and  begun  f  eelin'  f  er  the  butt 
of  a  gun. 

"Look  oudt!"  whispers  Dutchy.  "You  vill 
git  snooted!" 

But  I  only  just  walked  over  and  put  a'  arm 
'round  Hank.  "  Now,  come  on  home,"  I  says, 
like  I  meant  it.  "  'Cause  y'  know,  day  after  t'^. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  183 

morra  another  Eye-Opener  has  got  to  rise  t'  the 
top.  Hank,  think  of  Bergin!  " 

He  turned  on  me  then,  and  give  me  such  a 
push  in  the  chest  that  I  sit  down  on  the  floor — 
right  suddent,  too.  Wai,  that  rubbed  me  the 
wrong  way.  And  the  next  thing  lie  knowed,  I 
had  him  by  the  back  of  the  collar,  and  was  a- 
draggin'  him  out. 

I  was  plumb  wored  out  by  the  time  I  got  him 
home,  and  so  Chub,  he  stayed  t'  watch.  I  went 
back  to  the  deepot.  And  I  was  still  a-settin'  there, 
feelin'  lonesome,  and  kinda  put  out,  too,  when 
here  come  Buckshot  Milliken  towards  me. 

"  I  think  Hank  oughta  be  'shamed  of  hisself," 
he  says,  "  fer  the  way  he  talks  about  you.  Course, 
we  know  why  he  does  it,  and  that  it  ain't 
true " 

:<  What's  he  got  t'  say  about  me?  "  I  ast,  huffy. 

"  He  said  you  was  a  ornery  hoodlum,"  answers 
Buckshot,  "  and  a  loafer,  and  that  he's  a-goin'  t' 
roast  you  in  his  paper.  He'd  put  Oklahomaw  on 
to  you,  he  said." 

"Huh!" 

"  And  you  been  such  a  good  friend  t'  Hank," 
goes  on  Buckshot.  "  Wai,  don't  it  go  to  show! " 


184  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

"If  he  puts  on  single  word  about  me  in  that 
paper  of  hisn,"  I  says,  gittin'  on  my  ear  good 
and  plenty,  "  I'll  just  natu'ally  take  him  acrosst 
my  knee  and  give  him  a  spankin'." 

"  And  he'll  put  enough  slugs  in  you  t'  make 
a  sinker,"  answers  Buckshot.  "Why,  Cupid, 
Hank  Shackleton  can  fight  his  weight  in  wild- 
cats. You  go  slow." 

"  But  he  cain't  shoot,"  I  says. 

"  He  cain't  shoot! "  repeats  Buckshot.  "  Why, 
I  hear  he  was  a  reg'lar  gun-fighter  oncet,  and  so 
blamed  fancy  with  his  shootin'  that  he  could  drive 
a  two-penny  nail  into  a  plank  at  twenty  yards 
ev'ry  bit  as  good  as  a  carpenter." 

"  Wai,"  I  says,  "  I'll  be  blasted  if  that's  got 
me  scairt  any." 

Buckshot  shook  his  haid.  "  I'm  right  sorry  t* 
see  any  bad  blood  'twixt  y',"  he  says. 

Next  thing,  it  was  all  over  town  that  Hank 
was  a-lookin'  f  er  me. 

Afterwards,  I  heerd  that  it  was  Hairoil  tole 
Macie  about  it.  "  You  know,"  he  says  to  her, 
"  whenever  Hank's  loaded  and  in  hollerin'  dis- 
tance of  a  town,  you  can  shore  bet  some  one's 
goin'  t'  git  hurt." 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  185 

Mace,  she  looked  a  little  bit  nervous.  But  she 
just  said,  "  I  reckon  Alec  can  take  keer  of  his- 
self."  Then  off  she  goes  to  pick  out  a  trunk  at 
Silverstein's. 

I  reckon,  though,  that  ole  Silverstein  'd  heerd 
about  the  trouble,  too.  So  when  Mace  come  back 
to  the  eatin'-house,  she  sit  down  and  writ  me  a 
letter.  " Friend  Alec"  it  said,  " I  want  to  see 
you  fer  a  minute  right  after  supper.  Made  Sew- 
ell." 

It  was  four  o'clock  then.  Supper  was  a  good 
two  hours  off.  Say !  how  them  two  hours  drug ! 

But  all  good  things  come  to  a*  end — as  the 
feller  said  when  he  was  strung  up  on  a  rope.  And 
the  hands  of  my  watch  loped  into  they  places 
when  they  couldn't  hole  back  no  longer.  Then, 
outen  the  door  on  the  track  side  of  the  eatin'- 
house,  here  she  come! 

My  little  gal!  I  was  hungry  t'  talk  to  her,  and 
git  holt  of  one  of  her  hands.  But  whilst  I  watched 
her  walk  toward  me,  I  couldn't  move,  it  seemed 
like;  and  they  was  a  lump  as  big  as  a  baseball 
right  where  my  Adam's  apple  oughta  be. 

"Macie!" 

She  stopped  and  looked  straight  at  me,  and  I 


186  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

seen  she'd  been  cryi»'.  "  Alec,"  she  says,  "  I 
didn't  mean  t'  give  in  and  see  you  'fore  I  went. 
But  they  tole  me  you  and  Hank  'd  had  words. 
And — and  I  couldn't  stay  mad  no  longer." 

"Aw,  honey,  thank  y'l" 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  away  t'  stay,"  she  says. 
"  Leastways,  I  don't  think  so.  But  I  want  a  try 
at  singin',  Alec, — a  chanst.  Paw's  down  on  me 
account  of  that.  And  he  don't  even  come  in  town 
no  more.  Wai,  I'm  sorry.  But — you  understand, 
Alec,  don't  y'?" 

"  Yas>  little  gal.  Go  ahaid.  I  wouldn't  hole 
you  back.  I  want  you  should  have  a  chanst." 

"  And  if  I  win  out,  I  want  you  t'  come  to  Noo 
York  and  hear  me  sing.  Will  y',  Alec? " 

"  Ev'ry  night,  I'll  go  out  under  the  cotton- 
woods,  by  the  ditch,  and  I'll  say,  '  Gawd,  bless 
my  little  gal.' " 

"  I  won't  f ergit  y',  Alec." 

I  turned  my  haid  away.  Off  west  they  was 
just  a  little  melon-rind  of  moon  in  the  sky.  As  I 
looked,  it  begun  to  dance,  kinda,  and  change 
shape.  "  111  allus  be  waitin',"  I  says,  after  a 
little,  "  — if  it's  five  years,  'r  fifty,  'r  the  end  of 
my  life." 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  187 

"  They  won't  never  be  no  other  man,  Alec. 
Just  you " 

"Macie!" 

That  second,  we  both  heerd  hollerin'  acrosst 
the  street.  Then  here  come  Hairoil,  runnin',  and 
carryin'  a  gun. 

"Cupid,"  he  says,  pantin',  "take  this."  (He 
shoved  the  gun  into  my  hand. )  "  Miss  Macie, 
git  outen  the  way.  It's  Hank!" 

Quick  as  I  could,  I  moved  to  one  side,  so's 
she  wouldn't  be  in  range. 

"Ye-e-e-oop!" 

As  Hank  rounded  the  corner,  he  was  stag- 
gerin'  some,  and  wavin'  his  shootin'-iron.  "  I'm 
a  Texas  bad  man,"  he  yelps ;  "  I'm  as  ba-a-ad  as 
they  make  'em,  and  tough  as  bull  beef."  Then, 
he  went  tearin'  back'ards  and  for'ards  like  he'd 
pull  up  the  station  platform.  "Hey!"  he  goes 
on.  "  I've  put  a  lot  of  fellers  t'  sleep  with  they 
boots  on!  Come  ahaid  if  you  want  t'  git  planted 
in  my  private  graveyard ! " 

Next,  and  whilst  Mace  was  standin'  not  ten 
feet  back  of  him,  he  seen  me.  He  spit  on  his  pis- 
tol hand,  and  started  my  way. 

"You    blamed    polecat,"    he  hoUered,    "I'll 


188  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

learn  you  t'  shoot  off  you'  mouth  when  it  ain't 
loaded!  You'  hands  ain't  mates  and  you'  feet 
don't  track,  and  I'm  a-goin'  t'  plumb  lay  you 
out!" 

I  just  stayed  where  I  was.  "What's  in  you' 
craw,  anyhow?  "  I  called  back. 

He  didn't  answer.  He  let  fly ! 

Wai,  sir,  I  doubled  up  like  a  jack-knife,  and 
went  down  kerflop.  The  boys  got  'round  me — 
say!  talk  about  you'  pale-faces! — and  yelled  to 
Hank  to  stop.  He  drawed  another  gun,  and,  just 
as  I  got  t'  my  feet,  went  backin'  off,  coverin'  the 
crowd  all  the  time,  and  warnin'  'em  not  t'  mix  in. 

They  didn't.  But  someone  else  did — Mace. 
Quick  as  a  wink,  she  reached  into  a  buckboard  f  er 
a  whip.  Next,  she  run  straight  up  to  Hank — 
and  give  him  a  tumble  lick ! 

He  dropped  his  pistols  and  put  his  two  arms 
acrosst  his  eyes.  "  Mace !  don't ! "  he  hollered. 
[(It'd  sobered  him,  seemed  like.)  Then,  he  turned 
and  took  to  his  heels. 

That  same  second,  I  heerd  a  yell — Bergin's 
voice.  Next,  the  sheriff  come  tearin'  'round  the 
corner  and  tackled  Hank.  The  two  hit  the 
ground  like  a  thousand  of  brick. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  189 

Mace  come  runnin'  towards  me,  then.  But  the 
boys  haided  her  off,  and  wouldn't  let  her  git 
clost. 

"  Blood's  runnin'  all  down  this  side  of  him," 
says  Monkey  Mike. 

Shore  enough,  it  was ! 

"Chub!"  yells  Buckshot,  "git  Billy;  Trow- 
bridge!" 

"  Don't  you  cry,  ner  nothin',"  says  Hairoil  t' 
Mace.  And  whilst  he  helt  her  back,  they  packed 
me  acrosst  the  platform  and  up-stairs  into  one  of 
them  rooms  over  the  lunch-counter.  And  then, 
'fore  I  could  say  Jack  Robinson,  they  hauled  my 
coat  off,  put  a  wet  towel  'round  my  f orrid,  and 
put  me  into  bed.  After  that,  they  pulled  down 
the  curtains,  and  bunched  t'gether  on  either  side 
of  my  pilla. 

"  Shucks ! "  I  says.  "  I'm  all  right.  Let  me  up, 
you  blamed  fools !  " 

Just  then,  Monkey  Mike  come  runnin'  in  with 
the  parson,  and  the  parson  put  out  a  hand  t'  make 
me  be  still.  "My  dear  friend,"  he  says,  "I'm 
sorry  this  happened."  And  he  was  so  darned 
•worried  lookin'  that  I  begun  t'  think  somethin' 
shore  was  wrong  with  me,  and  I  laid  quiet. 


190  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

Next,  the  door  opened  and  in  come  Mace ! 

The  room  was  so  dark  she  couldn't  see  much  at 
first.  So,  she  stepped  closter,  walkin'  soft,  like 
she  didn't  want  to  jar  nobody.  "  Alec!  "  she  says 
tearful. 

"Made!" 

She  stooped  over  me. 

The  boys  turned  they  backs. 

.Aw,  my  dear  little  gal !  Her  lips  was  cold,  and 
"tremblin'. 

Wai,  then  she  turned  to  the  bunch,  speakin* 
awful  anxious.  "Is  he  hurt  bad?"  she  ast,  low 
like. 

•"Naw,"  I  begun,  "  I- 

IMonkey  Mike  edged  'twixt  me  and  her,  puttin' 
one  hand  over  my  mouth  so  's  I  couldn't  talk. 
"  We  don't  know  exac'ly,"  he  answers. 

"  Boys! "  she  says,  like  she  was  astin'  'em  to 
.fergive  her;  and,  "  Alec!  " 

Buckshot  said  afterwards  that  it  shore  was  a 
solemn  death-bed  scene.  The  parson  was  back 
agin  the  wall,  his  chin  on  his  bosom;  I  was  chawin* 
the  ringers  off  en  Mike,  and  the  rest  of  the  fellers 
-was  standin'  t'gether,  laughin'  into  they  hats  fit 
t'  sprain  they  faces. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  191 

Billy  come  in  then,  "  Doc,"  says  Macie,  "  save 
him!" 

"I'll  do  all  I  can,"  promises  Billy.  "Let's 
hope  he'll  pull  through." 

"Aw,  Alec! "  says  Mace,  again. 

Hairoil  went  up  to  her.  "  Mace,"  he  says, 
"  they's  one  thing  you  can  do  that'd  he  a  mighty 
hig  comfort  t'  pore  Cupid." 

"What's  that?"  she  ast,  earnest  as  the  devfl. 
"  I'll  do  aw/thin'  f  er  him." 

"  Marry  him,  Mace,"  he  says,  "  and  try  to  nuss 
him  back  t'  health  again." 

I  was  plumb  amazed.  "  Marry!  "  I  says. 

But  'fore  I  could  git  any  more  out,  Mike  shut 
off  my  wind ! 

Dear  little  gal!  She  wasn't  skittish  no  morer 
She  was  so  tame  she'd  'a'  et  right  outen  my  hand, 
"  Parson,"  she  says,  goin'  towards  him,  "  will — 
will  you  marry  Alec  and  me — now?  " 

"  Dee-lighted,"  says  the  parson,  " — if  he  is  able 
t'  go  through  the  ceremony." 

"  Parson,"  I  begun,  pullin'  my  face  loose,  "  I 
want " 

Mike  give  me  a  dig. 

I  looked  at  him. 


192  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

He  wunk — hard. 

And  then,  I  tumbled! 

Fer  a  minute,  I  just  laid  back,  faint  shore 
enough,  thinkin'  what  a  all-fired  sucker  I  was. 
And  whilst  I  was  stretched  out  that-a-way,  Mace 
come  clost  and  give  me  her  hand.  The  parson,  he 
took  out  a  little  black  book. 

"  Dearly  beloved''  he  begun, te  we  are  gathered 
together " 

It  was  then  I  sit  up.  "  Parson,  stop!  "  I  says. 
And  to  Mace,  "Little  gal,  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  let 
'em  take  no  advantage  of  you.  I  wasn't  hit  in  the 
side.  It's  my  arm,  and  it's  only  just  creased  a 
little." 

Mace  kinda  blinked,  not  knowin'  whether  t'  be 
glad  'T  not,  I  reckon. 

"And  this  hull  bsuiness,"  I  goes  on,  "is  a 
trick." 

Her  haid  went  up,  and  her  cheeks  got  plumb 
white.  Then,  she  begun  t'  back — slow.  "A 
trick!"  she  repeats;  " — it's  a  trick!  Aw,  how 
mean!  how  mean!  I  didn't  think  you  was  like 
that!" 

"Me,  Mace?  It  wasn't " 

"A  trick!"  she  goes  on.  "But  I'm  glad  I 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  193 

found  it  out — yas.  This  afternoon  when  I  was 
talkin'  to  y',  I  wanted  t'  stay  right  here  in  Briggs 
— I  wanted  t'  stay  with  you.  If  you'd  just  said 
you  wisht  I  would;  if  you'd  just  turned  over  you* 
hand,  why,  I'd  'a'  give  up  the  trip.  My  heart  was 
achin'  t'  think  I  was  goin*.  But  now,  now — " 
And  she  choked  up. 

"Made!"  I  says.  "Aw,  don't!"  Somehow  I 
was  beginnin'  t'  feel  kinda  dizzy  and  sick. 

She  faced  the  parson.  "And  you  was  in  it, 
too ! — you!  "  she  says. 

"  I'd  do  anythin'  t'  keep  you  from  goin'  t'  Noo 
lYork,"  he  answers,  "  and  from  hem'  a'  actress." 

She  looked  at  Billy  next.  "  The  hull  town  was 
in  it!"  she  went  on.  "Everybody  was  ready  t' 
git  me  fooled;  t'  make  me  the  josh  of  the 
county!" 

"  No,  no,  little  gal,"  I  answers,  and  got  to  my 
feet  byside  the  bed.  "Not  me,  honey!" 

She  only  just  turned  and  opened  the  door.  "  I 
don't  wonder  the  rest  of  you  ain't  got  nothin'  t' 
say,"  she  says.  "Why,  I  ain't  never  Tieerd  of 
anythin'  so — so  low."  And  haid  down,  and  sob- 
bin',  she  went  out. 

I  tried  t'  f  oiler,  but  my  laigs  was  sorta  wob- 


194  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

bley.  I  got  just  a  step  'r  two,  and  put  a'  arm  on 
Billy's  shoulder. 

The  boys  went  out  then,  too,  not  sayin'  a  word, 
but  lookin'  some  sneaky. 

"  Bring  her  back,"  I  called  after  'em.  "  Aw, 
I've  hurt  my  pore  little  gal!"  I  started  t'  walk 
again,  leanin'  on  the  doc.  "Boys! " 

Next  thing,  over  I  flopped  into  Billy's  arms. 


When  I  come  to,  a  little  later  on,  here  was 
Billy  settin'  byside  me,  a'  awful  sober  look  on  his 
face. 

"  Billy,"  I  says  to  him,  "  where  is  she? " 

"  Cupid — don't  take  it  hard,  ole  man — she's 
— she's  gone.  Boarded  the  East-bound  not  half 
,a'  hour  ago.  But,  pardner " 

Gone! 

I  didn't  answer  him.  I  just  rolled  over  onto 
my  face. 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 


WAL,  pore  ole  Sewell!  I  wasn't  feelin'  dandy 
them  days,  you'd  better  believe.  But,  Sewell,  he 
took  Macie's  goin'  turrible  bad.  Whenever  he 
come  in  town,  he  was  allus  just  as  qui-i-et. 
Not  a  cheep  about  the  little  gal;  wouldn't  V 
laughed  fer  a  nickel;  and  never'd  go  anywheres 
nigh  the  lunch-counter.  Then,  he  begun  t'  git 
peakeder'n  the  dickens,  and  his  eyes  looked  as  big* 
as  saucers,  and  bloodshot.  Pore  ole  boss ! 

I  kept  outen  his  way.  He'd  heerd  all  about 
that  Shackleton  business,  y*  savvy,  and  was  awful 
down  on  me;  helt  me  responsible  fer  the  hull 
thing,  and  tole  the  boys  he  never  wanted  t*  set 
eyes  on  me  again.  Hairoil  went  to  him  and  said 
I'd  been  jobbed,  and  was  innocenter'n  Mary's 
little  lamb.  But  Sewell  wouldn't  listen  even,  and 
said  I'd  done  him  dirt. 

195 


196  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

A-course,  I  couldn't  go  back  t'  my  Bar  Y 
job,  then, — and  me  plumb  crazy  t'  git  to  work 
and  make  enough  t'  go  to  Noo  York  on!  But  I 
didn't  do  no  mournin';  I  kept  a  stiff  upper  lip. 
"  Cupid,"  I  says  to  myself,  "  allus  remember 
that  the  gal  that's  hard  t'  ketch  is  the  best  kind 
when  oncet  you've  got  her."  And  I  sit  down  and 
writ  the  foreman  of  the  Mulhall  outfit.  (By 
now,  my  arm  was  all  healed  up  fine.) 

Wai,  when  I  went  over  to  the  post-office  a  lit- 
tle bit  later  on,  the  post-master  tole  me  that  Sew- 
ell'd  just  got  a  letter  from  Macie! — but  it  hadn't 
seemed  t'  chirp  the  ole  man  up  any.  And  they 
was  one  fer  Mrs.  Trowbridge,  too,  he  says;  did 
I  want  to  look  at  it? 

"I  don't  mind,"  I  answers. 

It  was  from  her — I'd  know  her  little  dinky  1's 
anywheres.  I  belt  it  fer  a  minute — 'twixt  my 
two  hands.  It  was  like  I  had  her  fingers,  kinda. 
Then,  "  S'pose  they  ain't  nothin'  fer  me  t'day," 
I  says. 

"No,  Cupid, — sorry.  Next  time,  I  reckon." 

"  Wai,"  I  goes  on  "  would  vou  mind  lettin*  me 
take  this  over  t'  Rose?  " 

"Why,  no, — go  ahaid." 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  197 

I  went,  quick  as  ever  my  laigs  could  carry  me, 
the  letter  tucked  inside  my  shirt. 

Rose  read  it  out  loud  t'  me,  whilst  I  helt  the 
kid.  It  wasn't  a  long  letter,  but,  somehow,  I  never 
could  recollect  afterwards  just  the  exac'  words 
that  was  in  it.  I  drawed,  though,  that  Mace  was 
havin'  a  fcoa^-up  time.  She  was  seein'  all  the 
shows,  she  said,  meetin'  slathers  of  folks,  and  had 
a  room  with  a  nice,  sorta  middle-aged  lady,  in  a 
place  where  a  lot  of  young  fellers  and  gals  hung 
out  t'  study  all  kinds  of  fool  business.  Some  of 
'em  she  liked,  and  some  she  didn't.  Some  took 
her  fer  a  greeney,  and  some  was  fresh.  But  she 
was  learnin'  a  pile — and  'd  heerd  Susy's  Band! 

"  Is  that  all? "  I  ast  when  Rose  was  done. 

"  Yas,  Cupid." 

"Nothin' about  me?" 

"No." 

"Does  she  give  her  address?" 

"Just  Gen'ral  Deliv'ry." 

"  Thank  y',  Rose." 

"  Stay  t'  dinner,  Cupid.  I'm  goin'  t'  have 
chicken  fricassee." 

But  I  didn't  feel  like  eatin'.  I  put  the  kid 
down  and  come  away. 


198  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

I  made  towards  Dutchy's — pretty  blue,  I  was,, 
a-course.  "  Cupid,"  I  says,  "  bad  luck  runs  in 
you'  fambly  like  the  wooden  laig." 

But,  mind  y',  I  wasn't  goin'  with  the  idear  of 
boozin'  up,  no,  ma'am.  I  figger  that  if  a  gal's 
worth  stewin'  over  any,  she's  a  hull  lot  too  good 
fer  a  man  that  gits  drunk.  I  wrent  'cause  I 
knowed  the  boys  was  there;  and  them  days  the 
boys  was  mighty  nice  to  me. 

Wai,  this  day,  I'm  powerful  glad  I  went.  If 
I  hadn't,  it's  likely  I'd  never  'a'  got  that  bully  po- 
sition, 'r  played  Cupid  again  (without  knowin* 
it)1 — and  so  got  the  one  chanst  I  was  a-prayin* 
fer. 

Now,  this  is  what  happened : 

I'd  just  got  inside  Dutchy's,  and  was  a-stand- 
in'  behind  Buckshot  Milliken,  watchin'  him  bluff 
the  station-agent  with  two  little  pair,  when  I 
heerd  Hairoil  a-talkin'  to  hisself,  kinda.  "Dear 
me  suz!  "  he  says  (he  was  peerin'  acrosst  the  street 
towards  the  deepot) ,  "  what  blamed  funny  things 
I  see  when  I  ain't  got  no  gun!  " 

A-course,  we  all  stampeded  over  and  took  a 
squint.  "  Wai,  when  did  that  blow  in?  "  says  Bill 
Rawson.  And,  "  Say!  ketch  me  whilst  I  faint! " 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  199 

goes  on  one  of  the  Lazy  X  boys,  making  believe 
as  if  he  was  weak  in  the  laigs.  The  rest  of  just 
haw-hawed. 

A  young  feller  we'd  never  seen  afore  was 
eomin'  eater-corners  from  the  station.  He  was 
a  slim- Jim,  sorta  salla  complected,  jaw  clean 
scraped,  and  he  had  on  a  pair  of  them  tony  pinch- 
bug  spectacles.  He  was  rigged  out  fit  t'  kill — 
grey  store  clothes,  dicer  same  colour  as  the  suit, 
sky-blue  shirt,  socks  tatooed  green,  and  gloves. 
He  passed  clost,  not  lookin'  our  Erection,  and 
made  f er  the  Arnaz  rest'rant. 

Just  as  he  got  right  in  front  of  it,  he  come  short 
and  begun  readin'  the  sign  that's  over  the  door — 

Meals  25c 

Start  in  and  It's  a  Habit 
You  cain't  Quit. 

Then  we  seen  him  grin  like  he  was  tumble 
tickled,  and  take  out  a  piece  of  paper  t'  set  some- 
thin'  down.  Next,  in  he  slides. 

We  all  dropped  back  and  lined  up   again. 

"  Not  a  sewin'-machine  agent,  'r  he'd  'a'  wore 
a  duster,"  says  Hairoil. 


200  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

"  And  a  patent  medicine  man  would  'a'  had  on 
a  stove-pipe,"  adds  Bergin. 

"Maype  he  iss  a  preacher,"  puts  in  Dutchy, 
lookin'  scairt  as  the  dickens. 

"  Nixey,"  I  says.  "  But  if  he  was  a  drummer, 
he'd  'a'  steered  straight  fer  a  thirst-parlour." 

Missed  it  a  mile — the  hull  of  us.  Minute,  and 
in  run  Sam  Barnes,  face  redder 'n  a  danger- 
signal. 

"  Boys,"  he  says,  all  up  in  the  air,  "  did  y* 
see  It?  Wai,  what  d'  you  think?  It's  from  Bos- 
ton, and  It  writes.  I  was  at  the  Arnaz  feed  shop, 
gassin'  Carlota,  when  It  shassayed  in.  Said  It 
was  down  here  fer  the  first  time  in  a-a-all  Its 
life,  and  figgers  t'  work  this  town  fer  book  maw- 
terial.  Gents,  It's  a  liter'toor  sharp!" 

"Of  all  the  gall!"  growls  Chuh  Flannagan, 
gittin'  hot.  "  Goin'  t'  take  a  shy  outen  us ! "  And 
I  seen  that  some  of  the  other  boys  felt  like  he 
did. 

Buckshot  Milliken  spit  in  his  hands.  "  I'll  go 
over,"  he  says,  "and  just  natu'lly  settle  that 
dude's  hash.  I'd  admire  t'  do  it." 

I  haided  him  off  quick.  Then  I  faced  the 
bunch.  "  Gents,"  I  begun,  "  ain't  you  just  a  lit- 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  201 

tie  bit  hasty?  Now,  don't  git  in  a  sweat.  Con- 
sider this  subject  a  little  'fore  you  act.  Sam,  I 
thought  you  liked  t'  read  liter'toor  books." 

Sam  hauled  out  "  Stealthy  Steve  " — a  fav'- 
rite  of  hisn.  "  Shore  I  do,"  he  answers.  "  But,  as 
I  tole  this  Boston  feller,  no  liter'toor's  been  hap- 
penin'  in  Briggs  lately — no  killings,  'r  train  hole- 
ups." 

"That's  right,  Sam,"  I  says,  sarcastic;  "go 
and  switch  him  over  t'  Goldstone, — when  they 
won't  be  another  book  writer  stray  down  this  way 
fer  a  coon's  age.  Say!  You  got  a  haid  like  a 
tack!" 

Sam  dried  up.  I  come  back  at  the  boys. 
"  Gents,"  I  continues,  "  don't  you  see  this  is 
Briggs  City's  one  big  chanst? — the  chanst  t'  git 
put  in  red  letters  on  the  railroad  maps!  T'  git 
five  square  mile  of  this  mesquite  staked  out  into 
town  lots!  You  all  know  how  weVe  had  t'  take 
the  slack  of  them  jay-hawk  farmers  over  Cestos 
way;  and  they  ain't  such  a  much,  and  cain't  raise 
nothin*  but  shin-oak  and  peanuts  and  chiggers. 
But  they  tell  how  we  git  all  the  cyclones  and  rat- 
tlesnakes. 

"  Now,  we'll  curl  they  hair.  Listen,  gents, — 


202  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

Oklahomaw  City's  got  ceement  streets,  Guthrie's 
got  a  Carniggie  lib'rary,  and  Bliss  's  got  the 
Hunderd-One  Ranch.  And  we're  a-goin'  f  cab- 
bage this  book!  " 

:'  Wai,  that's  a  hoss  of  another  colour,"  admits 
Chub. 

"  Yas,"  says  Buckshot,  "  Cupid's  right.  We 
certainly  got  to  attend  to  this  visitor  that's  come 
to  our  enterprisin'  city,  and  give  him  a  fair 
shake." 

ef  But"  puts  in  Sam,  "  we're  up  a  tree.  Where's 
his  mawterial?" 

"  Mawterial,"  I  says,  "  — I  don't  just  savvy 
what  he  means  by  that.  But,  boys,  whatever  it 
is,  we  got  t'  see  that  he  gits  it.  Now,  s'posin'  I 
go  find  him,  and  sorta  feel  'round  a  little,  and 
draw  him  out." 

They  was  agreed,  and  I  split  f er  the  rest'rant. 
Boston  was  there,  all  right,  talkin'  to  ole  lady 
Arnaz  (but  keepin'  a'  eye  peeled  towards  Car- 
lota),  and  pickin'  the  shucks  off  en  a  tamale.  I 
sit  down  and  ast  fer  flapjacks.  And  whilst  I  was 
waitin'  I  sized  him  up. 

Clost  to,  I  liked  his  looks.  And  from  the  jump, 
I  seen  one  thing — they  wasn't  no  showin'  off  to 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  203 

him,  and  no  extra  dawg  ( 'r  he  wouldn't  'a'  come 
io  a  joint  where  meals  is  only  two-bits) .  He  was 
a  book-writer,  but  when  he  talked  he  didn't  use 
no  ten-dollar-a-dozen  words.  And,  in  place  of 
seegars,  he  smoked  cigareets — and  rolled  'em  his- 
self  with  one  hand,  by  jingo! 

Wai,  we  had  a  nice,  long  parley-voo,  me  gittin' 
the  hull  sittywaytion  as  regards  his  book,  and 
tellin'  him  we'd  shore  lay  ourselves  out  t'  help 
him — if  we  didn't,  it  wouldn't  be  white ;  him,  set- 
tin'  down  things  ev'ry  oncet  in  a  while,  'r  whit- 
tlin'  a  stick  with  one  of  them  self-cockin'  jack- 
knives. 

We  chinned  f  er  the  best  part  of  a'  hour.  Then, 
he  made  me  a  proposition.  This  was  it:  "  Mister 
Lloyd,"  he  says,  "  I'd  like  t'  have  you  with  me 
all  the  time  I'm  down  here, — that'll  be  three 
weeks,  anyhow.  You  could  explain  things,  and — 
and  be  a  kinda  bodyguard." 

;<  Why,  my  friend,"  I  says,  ""  you  don't  need 
no  bodyguard  in  Oklahomaw.  But  I'll  be  glad  t' 
#rplain  any  thin'  I  can." 

"  Course,  I  want  t'  pay  you,"  he  goes  on; 
'  'cause  I'd  be  takin'  you'  time " 

"  I  couldn't  take  no  pay,"  I  breaks  in.  "  And 


204  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

if  I  was  t'  have  to  go,  why  any  one  of  the  bunch 

could  help  you  just  as  good." 

"  Let's  talk  business,"  he  says.  "  I  like  you, 
and  I  don't  want  you  t'  go.  Now,  what's  you* 
time  worth?" 

"  I  git  forty  a  month." 

"  Wai,  that  suits  me.  And  you'  job  won't  be 
a  hard  one." 

"  Just  as  you  say." 

So,  then,  we  shook  hands.  But,  a-course,  I 
didn't  swaller  that  bodyguard  story, — I  figgered 
that  what  he  wanted  was  t'  git  in  with  the  boys 
through  me. 

Wai,  when  I  got  back  t'  the  thirst-parlour,  I 
acted  like  I  was  loco.  "  Boys !  boys !  boys! "  I  hol- 
lered, "  I  got  a  job ! "  And  I  give  'em  all  a  whack 
on  the  back,  and  I  done  a  jig. 

Pretty  soon,  I  was  calmer.  Then,  I  says,  "  I 
ain't  a-goin'  t'  ride  f  er  Mulhall, — not  this  month, 
anyhow.  This  liter'toor  gent's  hired  me  as  his 
iibook  foreman.  As  I  understand  it,  they's  some 
things  he  wants,  and  I'm  to  help  corral  'em.  He 
says  that  just  now  most  folks  seem  t'  be  takin'  a 
lot  of  interest  in  the  West.  He  don't  reckon  the 
fashion'll  keep  up,  but,  a-course  a  book-writer 


Alec  Lloyd,    Cowpuncher  205 

has  t'  git  on  to  the  band-wagon.  So,  it's  up  t'  me, 
boys,  to  give  him  what's  got  to  be  had  'fore  the 
excitement  dies  down." 

Hairoil  come  over  t'  me.  "  Cupid,"  he  says, 
"  the  hull  kit  and  boodle  of  us'll  come  in  on  this. 
We  want  t'  help,  that's  the  reason.  We  owe  it  to 
y',  Cupid." 

"  Boys,"  I  answers,  "  I  appreciate  what  you 
mean,  and  I  accept  you'  offer.  Thank  y'." 

"  What  does  this  feller  want? "  ast  Sam. 

"Wai,"  I  says,  "he  spoke  a  good  bit  about 
colour— 

"  They's  shore  colour  at  the  Arnaz  feed  shop," 
puts  in  Monkey  Mike;  " — them  strings  of  red 
peppers  that  the  ole  lady  keeps  hung  on  the  walls. 
And  we  can  git  blue  shirts  over  to  Silver  stein's." 

"  No,  Mike,"  I  says,  "  that  ain't  the  idear.  Col- 
our is  Briggs,  and  us" 

"Aw,  punk!"  says  Sam.  "What  kind  of  a 
book  is  it  goin'  t'  be,  anyhow,  with  us  punchers 
in  it!" 

"  Wait  till  you  hear  what  I  got  t'  do"  I  an- 
swers. "  To  continue:  He  mentioned  characters. 
Course,  I  had  to  admit  we're kinda  shy  on  them" 

"  Wisht  we  had  a  few  Injuns,"  says  Hair- 


206  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

oil.  "  A  scalpin'  makes  mighty  fine  readin'.  Now, 
mebbe,  'Pache  Sam'd  pass, — if  he  was  lickered  up 
proper." 

"  Funny,"  I  says,  "  but  he  didn't  bring  up  In- 
juns. Reckon  they  ain't  stylish  no  more.  But  he 
put  it  plain  that  he'd  got  to  have  a  bad  man. 
Said  in  a  Western  book  you  allus  got  t'  have  a 
bad  man." 

"  Since  we  strung  up  them  two  Foster  boys." 
says  Bergin,  "  Briggs  ain't  had  what  you'd  call  a 
bad  man.  In  view  of  this  writin'  feller  comin',  I 
don't  know,  gents,  but  what  we  was  a  little  hasty 
in  the  Foster  matter." 

"Wai,"  I  says,  "we  got  t'  do  our  best  with 
what's  left.  This  findin'  mawterial  fer  a  book 
ain't  no  dead  open-and-shut  proposition.  'Cause 
Briggs  ain't  big*  and  it  ain't  what  you'd  call  bad. 
That'll  hole  us  back.  But  let's  dig  in  and  make 
up  fer  what's  lackin'." 

Wai,  we  rustled  'round.  First  off,  we  togged 
ourselves  out  the  way  punchers  allus  look  in  mag- 
azines. (I  knowed  that  was  how  he  wanted  us.) 
We  rounded  up  all  the  shaps  in  town,  with  orders 
to  wear  'em  constant — and  made  Dutchy  keep 
'em  on,  too !  Then,  guns :  Each  of  us  carried  six, 


Alec  Lloyd,  Ccwpuncher  207 

kinda  like  a  front  fringe,  y'  savvy.  Next,  one  of 
the  boys  loped  out  t'  the  Lazy  X  and  brung  in  a 
young  college  feller  that'd  come  t'  Oklahomaw  a 
while  back  fer  his  health.  It  'pears  that  he'd 
been  readin'  a  Western  book  that  was  writ  by  a' 
Eastern  gent  somewheres  in  Noo  Jersey.  And, 
say!  he  was  the  wildest  lookin'  cow-punch  that's 
ever  been  saw  in  these  parts ! 

We'd  no  more'n  got  all  fixed  up  nice  when, 
"  Ssh! "  says  Buckshot,  "  here  he  comes! " 

"Quick,  boys!"  I  says,  "we  got  t'  sing.  It's 
expected." 

The  sheriff,  he  struck  up 

"  Paddy  went  to  the  Chinaman  with  only  one 
shirt. 

How's  that?" 

"That's  tough!"  we  hollers,  loud  enough  to 
lift  the  shakes. 

tf  He  lost  of  his  ticket,  says, '  Divvil  the  worse/ 
How's  that?" 

"That's  tough!" 

Mister  Boston  stopped  byside  the  door.  The 
sheriff  goes  on 


208  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"  Aw3  Pat  'fer  his  shirt,,  he  begged  hard  and 

plead, 
!But,  e  No  tickee,  no  washee,'  the  Chinaman 

said. 
Now  Paddy's  in  jail.,  and  the  Chinaman's  dead! 

How's  that?  " 
"That's  tough!" 

It  brung  him.  He  looked  in,  kinda  edged 
through  the  door,  took  a  bench,  and  surveyed 
them  shaps,  and  them  guns  till  his  eyes  plumb 
protruded.  "  Rippin' !  "  I  heerd  him  say. 

"' That's  tough/"  repeats  Monkey  Mike, 
•winkin'  to  the  boys.  "Wai,  I  should  remark  it 
~was! — to  go  t'  jail  just  fer  pluggin'  a  Chink. 
Irish  must  'a'  felt  like  two-bits." 

Boston  lent  over  towards  me.  "What's  two 
bits? "he  ast. 

''  What's  two  bits,"  says  Rawson.  "  Don't  you 
know?  Wai,  one  bit  is  wrhat  you  can  take  outen 
the  other  feller's  hide  at  one  mouthful.  Two  bits, 
a-course,  is  two  of  'em." 

"  And,"  says  that  college  feller  from  the  Lazy; 
X, "  go  fer  the  cheek  alms — the  best  eatin'."  (He 
was  smart,  all  right. ) 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  209 

"Not  a  Chinaman's  cheek — too  tough,"  says 
the  sheriff. 

Boston  begun  to  kinda  talk  to  hisself .  "  Hor- 
rible! "  he  says.  "  Shy  Locks,  by  Heaven! "  Then 
to  me  again,  speakin'  low  and  pointin'  at  the 
sheriff,  "  Mister  Lloyd,  what  kind  of  a  f ambly 
did  that  man  come  from?  " 

"  Don't  know  a  hull  lot  about  him,"  I  answers, 
"  but  his  mother  was  a  squaw,  and  his  father  was 
found  on  a  doorstep." 

"  A  squaw"  he  says.  " That  accounts  f er  it." 
[And  he  begun  to  watch  the  sheriff  clost. 

"  Gents,  what  you  want  fer  you'  supper? "  ast 
the  Arnaz  boy,  comin'  our  direction. 

"I  feel  awful  caved  in,"  answers  Buckshot. 
"  I'll  take  a  dozen  aigs." 

"How'llyouhave'em?" 

"Boil  'em  hard,  so's  I  can  hole  'em  in  my; 
fingers.  And  say,  cool  'em  off  'fore  you  dish  'em 
up.  I  got  blistered  bad  the  last  time  I  et  aigs." 

"  Rawson,  what'll  you  have? " 

Rawson,  he  kinda  cocked  one  ear.  "  Wai,"  he 
says,  easy  like,  "  give  me  rattlesnake  on  toast." 

Nobody  cheeped  fer  a  minute,  'cause  the  boys 
was  stumped  fer  somethin'  to  go  on  with.  But 


210  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

just  as  I  was  gittin'  nervous  that  tHe  conversa- 
tion was  peterin'  out,  Boston  speaks  up. 

"Rattlesnake?"  he  says;  "did  he  say  rattle- 
snake? " 

Like  a  shot,  Rawson  turned  towards  him, 
wrinklin*  his  forrid  and  wigglin'  his  moustache 
awful  fierce.  ee  That's  what  I  said,"  he  answers, 
voice  plumb  down  to  his  number  'levens. 

It  give  me  my  show.  I  drug  Boston  away. 
"  Gee ! "  I  says,  "  on  this  side  of  the  Mississippi, 
you  got  to  be  keerful  how  you  go  shoot  off  you' 
mouth!  And  when  you  remark  on  folks's  eatin', 
you  don't  want  t'  look  tickled." 

Wai,  that  was  all  the  colour  he  got  till  night, 
when  I  had  somethin'  more  prepared.  We  took 
up  a  collection  f  er  winda-glass,  and  Chub  Flan- 
nagan,  who  can  roll  a  gun  the  prettiest  you  ever 
seen,  walked  up  and  down  nigh  Boston's  stop- 
pin'-place,  invitin'  the  fellers  t'  come  out  and 
"  git  et  up,"  makin'  one  'r  two  of  us  dance  the 
heel-and-toe  wrhen  we  showed  ourselves,  and 
shootin'  up  the  town  gen'ally. 

Then,  fer  a  week,  nothin'  happened. 

It  was  just  about  then  that  Rose  got  another 
letter  from  Macie.  And  it  seemed  t'  me  that  the 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  211 

little  gal  'd  changed  her  tune  some.  She  said 
Noo  York  took  a  tumble  lot  of  money — clothes, 
and  grub,  and  so  forth  and  so  on.  Said  they  was 
so  blamed  little  oxygen  in  the  town  that  a  lamp 
wouldn't  burn,  and  they'd  got  to  use  'lectricity. 
And — that  was  all  f  er  this  time,  'cause  she  had  t* 
write  her  paw. 

"  I  s'pose,"  I  says  to  Rose,  "  that  it'd  be  wastin' 
my  breath  t'  ast " 

"Yas,  Cupid,"  she  answers,  "but  it'll  be  O. 
K.  when  she  sees  you." 

ff  I  reckon,"  I  says  hopeful.  And  I  hunted  up 
my  new  boss. 

He  didn't  give  me  such  a  lot  t'  do  them  days — 
except  t'  show  up  at  the  feed-shop  three  times 
reg'lar.  That  struck  me  as  kinda  funny — 'cause 
he  was  as  flush  as  a'  Osage  chief. 

'  Why  don't  you  grub  over  to  the  eatin'-house 
oncet  in  a  while?  "  I  ast  him.  "  They  got  all  kinds 
of  tony  things — tomatoes  and  cucumbers  and  as- 
paragrass,  and  them  little  toadstool  things." 

"And  out  here  in  the  desert!"  says  Boston. 
"  I  s'pose  they  bring  'em  from  other  places." 

"  Not  on  you'  life !  "  I  answers.  "  They  grow 
'em  right  here — in  flower  pots." 


212  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

Out  come  a  pencil.  "  How  picture  skew!  "Bos- 
ton says, — and  put  it  down. 

End  of  that  first  week,  when  I  stopped  in  at 
the  Arnaz  place  fer  supper,  I  says  to  him, "  Wai," 
I  says,  "  book  about  done?  " 

He  was  layin'  back  lazy  in  a  chair, — as  usual 

-watchin'  Carlota  trot  the  crock'ry  in.  He  bat- 
ted his  eyes.  "  Done!  "  he  repeats.  "No.  Why, 
I  ain't  got  only  a  few  notes." 

"Notes?"  I  says;  "notes?"  I  was  tumble 
disappointed.  (I  reckon  I  was  worryin'  over  the 
book  worse'n  he  was.)  ';' Why,  say,  couldn't  you 
make  nothin'  outen  that  bad  man  who  was 
a-paintin'  the  town  the  other  night? " 

"  Just  a  bad  man  don't  make  a  book,"  says 
Boston;  "  leastways,  only  a  yalla-back.  But  take 
a  bad  man,  and  a  gal,  and  you  git  a  story  of  ad- 
venture." 

A  gal.  Yas,  you  need  a  gal  fer  a  book.  And 
you  need  the  gal  if 'you  want  t'  be  right  happy.  I 
knowed  that.  Pretty  soon,  I  ast,  "  Have  you 
picked  on  a  gal?  " 

"  Here's  Carlota,"  he  says.  "  She'd  make  a 
figger  fer  a  book." 

Carlota! — the  little  skeezicks!  Y'  see,  she's  aw- 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  213 

ful  pretty.  Hair  blacker'n  a  stack  of  black  cats. 
Black  eyes,  too,— big  and  friendly  lookin'. 
(That's  where  you  git  fooled — Carlota's  a  blend 
of  tiger-cat  and  bronc;  she  can  purr  'r  pitch — 
take  you'  choice.)  Her  face  is  just  snow  white, 
with  a  little  bit  of  pink — now  y'  see  it,  now  y* 
don't  see  it — on  her  cheeks,  and  a  little  spot  of 
blazin'  red  fer  a  mouth. 

"  But  what  I'm  after  most  now,"  he  goes  on, 
"is  a  plot." 

A  plot,  y'  savvy,  is  a  story,  and  I  got  him 
the  best  I  could  find.  This  was  Buckshot's : 

"  Boston,  this  is  ai  blamed  enterprisin'  country, 
— almost  any  ole  thing  can  happen  out  here.  Did 
you  ever  hear  tell  how  Nick  Erickson  got  his 
stone  fence?  No?  You  could  put  that  in  a  book. 
Wai,  you  know,  Erickson  lives  east  of  here.  Nice 
hunderd  and  sixty  acres  he's  got — level,  no 
stones.  Wanted  t'  fence  it.  Couldn't  buy  lumber 
'r  wire.  Figgered  on  haulin'  stone,  only  stone  was 
so  blamed  far  t'  haul.  Then, — Nature  was  ac- 
commodatin'.  Come  a'  earthquake  that  shook  and 
shook  the  ranch.  Shook  all  the  stones  to  the 
top.  Erickson  picked  'em  up — and  built  the 
fence." 


214  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

But  Boston  was  hard  t'  satisfy.  So  I  tried  to 
tell  him  about  Rose  and  Billy. 

"  No,"  he  says ;  "  if  they's  one  thing  them 
printin'  fellers  won't  stand  f er  it's  a  heroine  that's 
hitched." 

So,  then,  I  branched  off  on  to  pore  Bud 
Hickok. 

"  No,"  says  Boston,  again ;  "  that  won't  do. 
It's  got  to  end  up  happy." 

Wai,  it  looked  as  if  that  book  was  goin'  fluey. 
To  make  things  worse,  the  boys  begun  kickin' 
about  havin'  t'  pack  so  many  guns.  And  I  had 
to  git  up  a  notice,  signed  by  the  sheriff,  which 
said  that  more'n  two  shootin'-irons  on  any  one 
man  wouldn't  be  'lowed  no  more,  and  that  city- 
zens  was  t'  "  shed  forthwith." 

I  seen  somethin'  had  got  t'  be  done  pronto. 
"  Cupid,"  I  says  to  myself,  "  you  must  consider 
that  there  book  of  Boston's  some  more.  'Pears 
that  Boston  ain't  gittin'  all  he  come  after.  Noth- 
in'  ain't  happenin'  that  he  can  put  into  a  book. 
,Wal,  it's  got  t'  happen.  Just  chaw  on  that" 

Next,  I  hunted  up  the  boys.  "  Gents,"  I  says 
to  'em,  "  help  me  find  a  bad  man  that'll  fit  into  a 
story  with  a  gal." 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  215 

"  Gal?  "  they  repeats. 

*  Yas ;  every  book  has  got  t'  have  a  gal." 

"  I  s'pose,"  says  Rawson.  "  Just  like  ev'ry  herd 
had  got  t'  have  a  case  of  staggers.  But — who's 
the  gal?" 

The  boys  all  lent  towards  me,  fly-traps  wide 
open. 

"  Carlota  Arnaz,"  I  answers. 

Some  looked  plumb  eased  in  they  minds — and 
some  didn't.  Carlota,  she's  ace-high  with  quite  a 
bunch — all  ready  t'  snub  her  up  and  marry  her. 

"The  Senorita'll  do,"  says  Rawson.  "She 
gen'ally  makes  out  t'  keep  some  man  mis'rable." 

And  fer  the  bad  man,  we  picked  out  Pedro 
Garcia,  the  cholo  that  was  mixed  up  in  that  me- 
te'rite  business.  Drunk  'r  sober,  fer  a  hard-looker 
Pedro  shore  fills  the  bill. 

Next,  we  hunted  ev'ry  which  way  fer  a  plot. 
"  I'll  tell  y',"  says  Californy  Jim,  that  ole  pros- 
pector that  hangs  'round  here;  "if  the  lit'rary 
lead  has  pinched  out,  why  don't  you  salt — and 
pretend  to  make  a  strike?  " 

Hairoil  pricked  up  his  ears.  "  Wouldn't  that 
be  somethin'  like  a — a  scheme?"  he  ast;  "some- 
thin'  like  that  we  planned  out  fer  Cupid  here  ? " 


216  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

"  Yas." 

The  hull  bunch  got  plumb  pale.  Then  they 
made  f er  the  door.  , 

"Wait,  boys!"  I  hollered.  "Hole  on!  Re- 
member this  is  a  scheme  that's  been  ast  fer." 

They  stopped. 

"  And,"  I  says,  " it  looks  pretty  good  t'  me" 

They  turned  back — shakin'  they  haids,  though. 
"  Just  as  you  say,  Cupid,"  says  Rawson.  And, 
" Long's  it's  fer  you"  adds  the  sheriff.  " But 
schemes  is  some  dangerous." 

"I'll  tell  y' ! "  begins  Sam  Barnes.  "  We'U  hole 
up  the  dust  wagon  from  the  Little  Rattlesnake 
Mine,  all  of  us  got  up  like  Jesse  James!  " 

Bill  Rawson  jumped  nigh  four  feet.  "  You 
go  soak  you'  haid!"  he  begun,  mad's  a  hornet. 
"  Hole  up  the  dust  wagon!  And  whichever  of  us 
mule-skinners  happens  t'  be  bringin'  it  in'll  git 
the  G.  B.  from  that  high-falutin'  gent  in  the 
States  that  owns  the  shootin'-match.  No,  ma'am! 
And  if  that's  the  kind  of  plot  you-all  're  hanker- 
in'  after,  you  can  just  count  me  out  en  this  hawg- 
tyin'!" 

"That's  right— sic  'em,  Towser;  git  t'  fight- 
in',"  I  says.  "Now,  Bill,  work  you'  hole-back 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  217 

straps.  I  cain't  say  as  Sam's  plan  hit  the  right 
spot  with  me,  neither.  'Cause  how  could  Carlota 
figger  in  that  pow-wow?  Won't  do." 

Wai,  after  some  more  pullin'  and  haulin',  we 
fixed  it  up  this  way:  Pedro'd  grab  Carlota  and 
take  her  away  on  a  hoss  whilst  Boston  and  the 
passel  of  us  was  in  the  Arnaz  place.  He  was  t' 
hike  north,  and  drop  her  at  the  Johnson  shack 
on  the  edge  of  town — then  go  on,  takin'  a  dummy 
in  her  place,  and  totin'  a  brace  of  guns  filled  with 
blanks.  We'd  f  oiler  with  plenty  of  blanks,  too — 
and  Boston.  How's  that  fer  high! 

If  you  want  to  ast  me,  I  think  the  hull  idear 
was  just  O.  K.j  and  no  mistake.  Beautiful  gal 
kidnapped — bra-a-ave  posse  of  punchers — hard 
ride — hot  fight — rescue  of  a  pilla  stuffed  with 
the  best  alfalfa  on  the  market.  Procession  files 
back,  all  sand  and  smiles. 

"Why,"  I  says  to  Bergin,  "them  Eastern 
printin'  fellers'll  set  'em  up  fer  Boston  so  fast 
that  he'll  plumb  float." 

And  the  sheriff  agreed. 

But  it  couldn't  happen  straight  off.  Pedro  had 
t'  be  tole  about  it,  and  give  his  orders.  Carlota, 
the  same.  I  managed  this  part  of  the  shindig, 


218  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

the  boys  gittin'  the  blanks,  the  bosses  and  the  hay 
lady. 

Wai,  I  rode  down  to  the  section-house  and  ast 
fer  Pedro.  He  come  out,  about  ten  pounds  of 
railroad  ballast — more  'r  less — spread  on  to  them 
features  of  hisn.  (That'd  'a'  been  colour  fer  Bos- 
ton, all  right.)  I  tole  him  what  we  was  goin*  t' 
do,  why  we  was  a-doin'  it,  and  laid  out  Ms  share 
of  the  job.  Then  I  tacked  on  that  the  gal  he'd 
steal  was  Carlota. 

Now,  as  I  think  about  it,  I  recall  that  he  looked 
mighty  tickled.  Grinned  all  over  and  said,  "  Me 
gusta  mucho  "  more'n  a  dozen  times.  But  then 
I  didn't  pay  no  'tention  to  how  he  acted.  I  was 
so  glad  he'd  fall  in  with  me.  (The  Ole  Nick  take 
the  greasers!  A'  out-and-out,  low-down  lot  of 
sneakin'  coyotes,  anyhow!  And  I  might  'a' 
Tcnowed ) 

"  Pedro,"  I  says,  "  they's  no  rush  about  this. 
We'll  kinda  work  it  up  slow.  T*  make  the  hull 
thing  seem  dead  real,  you  come  to  town  ev'ry 
evenin'  fer  a  while,  and  hang  'round  the  rest'rant. 
Spend  a  little  spondulix  with  the  ole  woman  so's 
she  won't  kick  you  out,  and  shine  up  t'  Carlota 
when  Boston's  on  the  premises.  Ketch  on?" 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  219 

Pedro  said  he  did,  and  I  loped  back  to  town  t' 
meet  up  with  Carlota  and  have  it  out  with  her — 
and  that  was  a  job  fer  a  caution! 

Carlota  was  all  bronc  that  day — stubborn, 
pawin',  and  takin'  the  bit.  And  if  I  kept  up  with 
her,  and  come  out  in  the  lead,  it  was  'cause  I'd 
had  some  experience  with  Macie,  and  I'd  learned 
when  t'  leave  a  rambunctious  young  lady  have 
her  haid. 

"  Carlota,"  I  says,  "  us  fellers  has  fixed  up  a 
mighty  nice  scheme  t'  help  out  Boston  with  that 
book  he's  goin'  to  write." 

"  So? "  She  was  all- awake — quicker'n  scat. 

'  Yas,"  I  goes  on.  "  Y'  know,  he's  been 
wantin'  somethin'  #rcitin'  t'  put  in  it.  We  figger 
t'  give  it  to  him." 

"Como?"  she  ast. 

:<  With  a  case  of  kidnappin'.  Man  steals  gal 
— we  f oiler  with  Boston — lots  of  shootin' — save 
the  gal " 

"What  gal?" 

"  It's  a  big  honour — and  we  choosed  you." 

"So-o-o!" 

Say !  that  hit  her  right,  I  tell  y' !  But  I  had  to 
go  put  my  foot  in  it,  a-course.  "Yas,  you"  I 


220  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

goes  on.  "Mebbe  you  noticed  Boston's  here 
pretty  frequent? " 

"Si!si!si!senor!" 

!<  That's  'cause  he's  been  studyin'  you — so's  he 
could  use  you  f  er  a  book  character." 

"So!"  she  said.  "That  is  it!  that  is  why!" 
Mad?  Golly!  Them  black  eyes  of  hern  just 
snapped,  and  she  grabbed  a  hunk  of  bread  and 
begun  knifin'  it. 

"  Wai,"  I  says,  "  you  don't  seem  t'  ketch  on  to 
the  fact  that  you  been  handed  out  a  blamed  big 
compliment.  A  person  in  a  book  is  some  pota- 
toes." 

"NoUo/senor!" 

Pride  hurt,  I  says  to  myself.  "Now,  Car- 
lota,"  I  begun,  "  don't  cut  off  you'  nose  t'  spite 
you'  face.  Pedro  Garcia  is  turrible  tickled  that 
we  ast  him" 

"Pedro— puf!" 

"  In  the  book,"  I  goes  on,  "  he's  the  bad  man 
that  loves  you  so  much  he  cain't  help  stealin' 
you." 

"  I  hate  Pedro,"  she  says.  "  He  is  like  that — 
bad." 

"But  we  ain't  astin'  you  t'  like  him,  and  he 


A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  221 

don't  git  you.  He  drops  you  off  at  Johnson's 
and  takes  a  dummy  the  rest  of  the  way.  We 
want  t'  make  Boston  think  they's  danger." 

"  So?"  All  of  a  suddent,  she  didn't  seem  nigh 
as  mad — and  she  looked  like  she'd  just  thought 
of  somethin'. 

I  seen  my  chanst.  "That  was  the  way  we 
fixed  it  up,"  I  goes  on.  "  A-course,  now  you 
don't  want  t'  be  the  heroine,  I'll  ast  one  of  the 
eatin'-house  gals.  I  reckon  they  won't  turn  me 
down."  And  I  moseyed  towards  the  door. 

"  Cupid,"  she  calls,  "  come  back.  You  say,  he 
will  think  another  man  loves  me  so  much  that  he 
carries  me  away?" 

'You  got  it,"  I  answers. 

She  showed  them  little  nippers  of  hern. 
"Good!"  she  says.  "I  do  it!" 

"  But,  Carlota,  listen.  Boston  ain't  to  be  next 
that  this  is  a  put-up  job.  He's  to  think  it's  genu- 
wine.  Savvy?  And  he'll  git  all  the  feelin's  of  a 
real  kidnap.  Now,  to  fool  him  right,  you  got  to 
do  one  thing:  Be  nice  t'  Pedro  when  Boston's 
'round." 

Little  nippers  again.  "  I  do  it,"  she  says. 

I  started  t'  go,  but  she  called  me  back.  "  He 


222  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

will  think  another  man  loves  me  so  much  that  he 
carries  me  away?"  she  repeats. 

ff Shore"  I  says.  And  she  let  me  go. 

Y'  know,  flirtin'  was  Carlota's  strong  suit. 
And  that  very  evenin'  I  seen  her  talkin'  acrosst 
the  counter  to  Pedro  sweeter'n  panocha, — with 
a  takin'  smile  on  the  south  end  of  that  cute  little 
face  of  hern.  But  her  eyes  wasn't  smilin' — and  a 
Spanish  gal's  eyes  don't  lie. 

But  supper  was  late,  and  Boston  and  me  was 
at  a  table  clost  by, — him  lookin'  ugly  tempered. 
So  ole  lady  Arnaz  tole  Carlota  t'  jar  loose.  And 
pretty  soon  we  was  wrastlin'  our  corn-beef,  and 
Pedro  was  gone. 

Rawson  sit  down  nigh  us.  "  Cupid,"  he  says 
solemn,  "  reckon  we  won't  git  to  play  that  game 
of  draw  t'-night."  And  he  give  my  foot  a 
kick. 

"Why?"  last. 

"  Account  of  Pedro  bein'  in  town.  I  rigger  t' 
stay  clost  to  the  bunk-house." 

"  So  '11  7,"  I  says,  and  begun  examinin'  my 
shootin'-iron  mighty  anxious. 

"Who's  this  Pedro?"  ast  Boston. 

"  Didn't  y'  see  him? "  I  says.  "  He's  a  greaser, 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  223 

and  a'  awful  bad  cuss  t'  monkey  with.  If  you 
happen  t*  go  past  him  and  so  much  as  wiggle  a 
finger,  it's  like  takin'  you'  life  in  you'  hands. 
Look  at  this."  And  I  showed  him  a  piece  that 
me  and  Hairoil  'd  fixed  up  fer  the  last  Eye- 
Opener. 

"Pedro  Garcia/'  it  read,  "was  found  not 
guilty  by  Judge  Freeman  fer  perforatin*  Nick 
Trotmann's  sombrero  in  a  street  row  last  Satur- 
day night  week.  Proved  that  Nick  got  into  Ped- 
ro's way  and  sassed  him.  Pedro  'd  come  to  town 
considerable  the  worse  fer  booze  and,  as  is  allus 
the  case—  Then  they  was  a  inch  'r  two  without 
no  writin'.  Under  that  was  this:  "As  a  matter 
of  extreme  precaution,  we  have  lifted  the  last  half 
of  the  above  article,  havin'  got  word  that  Garcia, 
is  due  in  town  again.  Subscribers  will  please  ex- 
cuse the  gap.  I  didn't  git  no  time  t'  fill  it  in. 
Editor." 

"And  what's  he  doin'  in  here?*  says  Boston, 
— talkin'  to  a  young  gal  I " 

"  Half  cracked  about  her,"  puts  in  Bill. 
"And  if  she  won't  have  him,  'r  her  maw  inter- 
feres, I'm  feared  they'll  be  a  tragedy." 

"  Low  ruffian!"  says  Boston. 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Later  on,  about  ten  o'clock,  say,  I  was  passin' 
the  rest'rant,  and  I  heerd  a  man  singin' 

ff  Luz  de  mi  alma! 
Luz  de  mi  vida! " 

and  that  somethin'  was  "  despedosin' "  his  heart. 
(I  savvy  the  lingo  pretty  good.) 

Wai,  it  was  that  dog-goned  cholo, — under 
Carlota's  winda,  and  he  had  a  guitar.  Thundera- 
tion !  that  wasn't  in  our  program! 

"Say,  you!"  I  hollered. 

He  shut  up  and  come  over,  lookin'  kinda  as  if 
lie'd  been  ketched  stealin'  sheep,  but  grinnin'  so 
hard  his  eyes  was  plumb  closed — the  mean,  little, 
wall-eyed,  bow-laigged  swine! 

"  Pedro,"  I  says,  "  you'  boss  likely  wants  you. 
Hit  the  ties."  'Cause,  mebbe  Carlota  'd  git  mad 
at  his  yelpin,'  and  knock  the  hull  scheme  galley- 
twest. 

Talk  about  you'  cheek!  Next  night,  that 
greaser  and  his  guitar  was  doin'  business  at  the 
ole  stand.  I  let  him  alone.  Carlota  seemed  t'  like 
it.  Anyhow,  she  didn't  hand  him  out  no  hot 
soap  suds  through  the  winda,  'r  no  chairs  and 
tables. 

I  was  glad  things  was  goin'  so  nice.  'Cause 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  225 

lately  I'd  had  t'  worry  about  Mace  a  good  deal. 
Her  letters  had  eased  up  a  hull  lot.  Seems  she'd 
been  under  the  weather  f er  a  few  days. 

When  she  writ  again  though,  she  said  she  was 
O.  K.,  but  a-course  Noo  York  was  lonesome 
when  a  person  was  sick.  Op'ra  prospects?  Aw, 
they  was  fine! 

Next  thing,  I  was  nervouser'n  a  cow  with  the 
heel-fly.  No  letters  come  from  the  little  gal! — 
leastways,  none  to  Rose.  And  ev'ry  day  ole  man 
Sewell  snooped  'round  the  post-office,  lookin* 
more  and  more  down  in  the  mouth. 

"How's  Mace?"  Rawson  ast  him  oncet. 

'  Tol'rable,"  he  answers,  glum  as  all  git  out. 

That  kidnappin'  was  fixed  on  fer  Saturday. 
We  didn't  tell  Carlota  that  was  the  day.  Her 
maw  might  git  wind  of  the  job;  'r  the  gal  'd  go 
dress  up,  which  'd  spoil  the  real  look  of  the  hull 
thing.  Then,  on  a  Saturday,  after  five,  Pedro 
was  free  to  come  in  town — and  most  allus 
showed  up  with  some  more  of  the  cholos,  pumpin' 
a  hand-car. 

This  Saturday  he  come,  all  right,  and  went 
over  to  Sparks's  corral  fer  a  couple  of  bosses. 
[(Us  punchers  'd  tied  our  broncs  over  in  the  corral 


226  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

too,  so's  we'd  have  to  run  f  er  'em  when  Pedro  lit 
out  with  the  gal.  And  I'd  picked  that  straw- 
berry roan  of  Sparks's  fer  Boston.  It  was  the 
fastest  critter  on  four  laigs  in  the  hull  country. 
Y'  see,  I  wanted  Boston  t'  lead  the  posse. ) 

Six  o'clock  was  the  time  named.  It  'd  give  us 
more  'n  two  hours  of  day  fer  the  chase,  and  then 
they'd  he  a  nice  long  stretch  of  dusk — just  the 
kind  of  light  fer  circlin'  a'  outlaw  and  capturin' 
him,  dead  'r  alive! 

Wai,  just  afore  the  battle,  mother,  all  us  cow- 
punchers  happened  into  the  Arnaz  place.  And 
a-course,  Boston  was  there.  Me  and  him  was 
settin'  'way  back  towards  the  kitchen-end  of  the 
room.  Pretty  soon,  we  seen  Pedro  pass  the  front 
winda,  ridin'  a  boss  and  leadin'  another.  His 
loaded  quirt  was  a-hangin'  to  his  one  wrist,  and 
on  his  right  laig  was  the  gun  filled  with  blanks 
that  we'd  left  at  Sparks's  fer  him.  He  stopped 
at  the  far  corner  of  the  house,  droppin'  the 
bridle  over  the  broncs'  haids  so  they'd  stand. 
Then  he  came  to  the  side  door,  opened  it  about 
a'  inch,  peeked  in  at  Carlota, — she  was  behind 
the  counter — and  whistled. 

She  walked  straight  over  to  him,  smilin' — the 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  227 

little  cut-up ! — and  outen  the  door !  Fer  a  minute, 
no  sound.  Then,  the  signal — a  screech. 

That  screech  was  so  blamed  genuwine  I  al- 
most f  ergot  to  stick  out  my  laig  and  trip  Boston 
as  he  come  by  me.  Down  he  sprawled,  them 
spectacles  of  hisn  flyin'  off  and  bustin'  to  smith- 
ereens. The  boys  bunched  at  the  doors  t'  cut  off 
the  Arnaz  boy  and  the  ole  lady.  Past  'em,  I 
could  see  them  two  broncs,  with  Pedro  and  Car- 
lota  aboard,  makin'  quick  tracks  up  the  street. 

"Alas!  yon  villain  has  stole  her!"  says  Sam 
Barnes,  thro  win'  up  his  arms  like  they  do  in  one 
of  them  theayter  plays. 

"  Come,"  yells  Rawson.  "  We  will  f  oiler  and 
sa-a-ave  her."  Then  he  split  fer  the  corral, — us 
after  him. 

When  we  got  to  it,  we  found  somethin* 
funny:  Our  bosses  was  saddled  and  bridled  all 
right — but  ev'ry  cinch  was  cut! 

Wai,  you  could  'a'  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather ! 

That  same  minute,  up  come  Hank  Shackleton 
on  a  dead  run.  "Boys!"  he  says,  "that  greaser 
was  half  shot  when  he  hit  town.  Got  six  more 
jolts  at  Dutchy's." 


228  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

Fast  as  we  could,  we  got  some  other  saddles 
and  dumb  on — Bill  and  Sam  and  me  and  Shack- 
leton,  Monkey  Mike,  Buckshot  Milliken  and 
the  sheriff — and  made  fer  Hairoil's  shack. 

No  Carlota — but  that  blamed  straw  feemale, 
keeled  over  woeful,  and  a  cow  eatin'  her  hair. 

Shiverin'  snakes!  but  we  was  a  sick-lookin* 
bunch! 

But  we  didn't  lose  no  time.  A  good  way  ahaid, 
some  dust  was  travellin'.  We  spurred  towards  it, 
cussin'  ourselves,  wonderin'  why  Carlota  didn't 
turn  her  hoss,  'r  stop,  'r  jump,  'r  put  up  one  of 
her  tiger-cat  fights. 

"What's  his  idear?"  says  Monkey  Mike. 
"  Where's  he  takin'  her?" 

"  Bee  line  fer  the  reservation,"  says  Buckshot. 
"  Spanish  church  there.  Makin'  her  dope." 

"Wo-o-ow!"  It  was  Sheriff  Bergin.  We'd 
got  beyond  the  Bar  Y  ranch-house,  and  'd  gone 
down  a  slope  into  a  kinda  draw,  like,  and  then  up 
the  far  side.  This  'd  brung  us  out  on  to  pretty 
high  ground,  and  we  could  see,  about  a  mile  off, 
two  bosses  gallopin'  side  by  side.  "  The  gal's 
bronc  is  lame!"  says  the  sheriff.  "And  Pedro's 
lickin'  it.  We  got  him!  Pull  you'  guns." 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  229 

Chins.  I  got  weaker'n  a  cat.  And,  all  at  the 
same  time,  the  other  fellers  remembered — and 
such  a  howl.  We  had  guns,  a-course — but  they 
was  fitted  with  blanks! 

We  slacked  a  little. 

"  Is  that  greaser  loaded?"  ast  Bergin. 

"  Give  him  blanks  myself,"  says  Bill. 

Ahaid  again,  faster  'n  ever.  Carlota's  hoss 
was  shore  givin*  out — goin'  on  three  feet,  in  little 
jumps  like  a  jackrabbit.  Pedro  wasn't  able  t'  git 
her  on  to  his  bronc,  'r  else  he  was  f  card  the  critter 
wouldn't  carry  double.  Anyhow,  he  was  behind 
her,  everlastin'ly  usin'  his  quirt — and  losin* 
ground. 

Pretty  soon,  we  was  so  nigh  we  made  out  t' 
hear  him.  And  when  he  looked  back,  we  seen  his 
face  was  white,  f er  all  he's  a  greaser.  Then,  of  a 
suddent,  he  come  short,  half  wheeled,  waited  till 
we  was  closter,  and  fired. 

Somethin'  whistled  'twixt  me  and  the  sheriff 
— ping-ng-ng!  It  was  lead,  all  right! 

And  just  then,  whilst  he  was  pullin*  t'  right 
and  left,  scatterin'  quick,  but  shootin'  off  blanks 
'(we  was  so  orcited),  that  strawberry  roan  of 
Sparks's  come  past  us  like  a  streak  of  lightnin'. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 
And  on  her,  with  his  dicer  gone,   no   glasses,  a 
ca'tridge-belt  'round  his  neck,  and  a  pistol  in  one 
hand,  was  Boston! 

"  Hi,  you  fool,"  yells  the  sheriff,  "  You'll  git 
killed!" 

( Tire  Pedro  out  and  then  draw  his  fire  was  the 
best  plan,  y'  savvy.) 

Boston  didn't  answer — kept  right  on. 

But  the  run  was  up.  Pedro  'd  reached  that  ole 
dobe  house  that  Clay  Peters  lived  in  oncet,  pulled 
the  door  open,  and  makin'  Carlota  lay  flat  on  her 
saddle  (she  was  tied  on!)  druv  in  her  hoss.  Then, 
he  begun  t'  lead  in  hisn — when  Boston  brung  up 
his  hand  and  let  her  go — bang. 

Say!  that  greaser  got  a  surprise.  He  give  a 
yell,  and  drawed  back,  lettin'  go  his  hoss.  Then, 
he  shut  the  door  to,  and  we  seen  his  weasel  face 
at  the  winda. 

Boston's  gun  come  up  again. 

"Look  out,"  I  hollered.  "You'll  hurt  the 
gal." 

He  didn't  shoot  then,  but  just  kept  goin'. 
Pedro  fired  and  missed.  Next  minute,  Boston 
was  outen  range  on  the  side  of  the  house  where 
they  wasn't  no  winda,  and  off  en  his  hoss;  and 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  231 

the  cholo  was  poppin'  at  us  as  we  come  on,  and 
yellin'  like  he  was  luny. 

But  Boston,  it  seems,  could  hear  Carlota  sob- 
bin'  and  cryin'  and  prayin*.  And  it  got  in  to  his 
collar.  So  darned  if  he  didn't  run  right  'round 
to  that  winda  and  smash  it  in! 

Pedro  shot  at  him,  missed;  shot  again,  still 
yellin'  bloody  murder. 

Boston  wasn't  doin'  no  yellin'.  He  was  actin' 
like  a  blamed  jack-in-the-box.  Stand  up,  fire 
through  the  winda,  duck — stand  up,  duck 

He  got  it.  Stayed  up  a  second  too  long  oncet 
—then  tumbled  back'ards,  kinda  half  runnin'  as 
he  goes  down,  and  laid  quiet. 

Pedro  didn't  lean  out  t'  finish  him ;  didn't  even 
take  a  shot  at  us  as  we  pulled  up  byside  him  and 
got  off. 

But  the  gal  was  callin'  to  us.  I  picked  up  Bos- 
ton's gun  and  looked  in. 

Pedro  was  on  the  dirt  floor,  holdin'  his  right 
hand  with  his  left.  (No  more  shovelin'  fer  him.) 

Wai,  we  opened  the  door,  led  Carlota's 
hoss  out,  set  the  little  gal  loose,  and  lifted  her 
down. 

At  first,  she  didn't  say  nothin* — just  looked 


232  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

to  where  Boston  was.  Then  she  found  her  feet 

and  went  towards  him,  totterin'  unsteady. 
"Querido!"  she  calls;  "querido!" 
Boston  heerd  her,  and  begun  crawlin'  t'  meet 

her.  "All   right,   sweetheart,"   he    says,  " — all 

right.  I  ain't  hurt  much." 

Then  they  kissed — and  we  got  another  surprise 

party! 

That  night,  as  I  was  a-settin'  on  a  truck  at  the 
deepot,  thinkin'  to  myself,  and  watchin'  acrosst 
the  tracks  to  the  mesquite,  here  come  Boston 
'round  the  corner,  and  he  set  down  byside  me. 

"Wai,  Cupid?"  he  says,  takin'  holt  of  my 
arm. 

"  Boston,"  I  begun.  "  I — I  reckon  you  don't 
need  me  no  more." 

"No,"  says  Boston,  "I  don't.  And  I  want  t* 
square  with  y'.  Now,  the  boys  say  you're 
plannin'  t'  go  to  Noo  York  later  on — t'  take  the 
town  t'  pieces  and  see  what's  the  matter  with  it, 
eh?  "  And  he  dug  me  in  the  ribs. 

"Wai,"  I  answers,  "I've  talked  about  it — 
some." 

"  It's  a  good  idear,"  he  goes  on.  "  But  about 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  238 

my  bill — I  hope  you'll  think  a  hunderd  and  fifty 
is  fair,  fer  these  three  weeks." 

"  Boston!"  I  got  kinda  weak  all  to  oncet.  "  I 
icain't  take  it.  It  wasn't  worth  that." 

"  I  got  a  plot,"  he  says,  "  and  colour,  and  a  bad 
man,  and  " — smilin'  awful  happy — "  a  gal.  So 
you  get  you'  trip  right  away.  And  don't  you 
come  back  alone" 


CHAPTER    NINE 
A    ROUND-UP    IN    CENTRAL    PARK 

The  boys  was  a-settin'  'long  the  edge  of  the 
freight  platform,  Bergin  at  the  one  end  of  the 
line,  Hairoil  at  the  other,  and  all  of  'em  either 
a-chawin'  'r  a-smokin*.  I  was  down  in  front, 
doin'  a  promynade  back'ards  and  for'ards,  (I 
was  itchin'  so  to  git  started)  and  keepin'  one 
eye  peeled  through  the  dark  towards  the  south- 
west— fer  the  haidlight  of  ole  202. 

"And,  Cupid,"  Sam  Barnes  was  sayin', 
"  you'll  find  a  quart  of  tanglefoot  in  that  satchel 
of  yourn.  Now,  you  might  go  eat  somethin'  that 
wouldn't  agree  with  you  in  one  of  them  Eye- 
talian  rest'rants.  Wai,  a  swaller  of  that  fire- 
water '11  straighten  you  out  pronto." 

'  Sam,  that  shore  is  thoughtful.  Use  my  bronc 
whenever  you  want  to — she's  over  in  Sparks's 
corral.  Alms  speak  t'  her  'fore  you  go  up  to  her, 
though.  She's  some  skittish." 

234 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  235 

"  And  keep  you'  money  in  you'  boot-laig," 
begun  the  sheriff.  "I've  heerd  that  in  Noo  York 
they's  a  hull  lot  of  people  that  plumb  wear  they- 
selves  out  figgerin'  how  t'  git  holt  of  cash  with- 
out workin'  f  er  it." 

"We'll  miss  y'  turnble,  Cupid,"  breaks  in 
Hairoil.  "  I  don't  hardly  know  what  Briggs  '11 
do  with  you  gone.  Somehow  you  allus  manage 
t'  keep  the  excitement  up." 

"  But  if  things  don't  go  good  in  Noo  York," 
adds  Hank  Shackleton,  "  why,  just  holler." 

"  Thank  y',  Hank— thank  y'." 

A  little  spot  was  comin'  and  goin'  'way  down 
the  track.  The  bunch  looked  that  direction  silent. 
Pretty  soon,  we  heerd  a  rumblin',  and  the  spot 
got  bigger,  and  steady. 

The  boys  got  down  off  en  the  platform  and  we 
moseyed  over  t'  where  the  end  car  allus  stopped. 

Too-oo-oot! 

Shackleton  reached  out  f  er  my  hand.  "  Good- 
bye, Cupid,  you  ole  son-of-a-gun,"  he  says  almost 
squeezin'  the  paw  off  en  me. 

'  Take  keer  of  you'self,"  says  the  sheriff. 

"  Don't  let  them  fly  Noo  York  dudes  git  you 
scairt  none  "  (this  was  Chub). 


236  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"  That  ain't  you'  satchel,  Cupid,  that's  the 
mail-bag." 

"  Wai,  we'd  rattle  am/body." 

"  Here's  Boston,  lie  wants  t'  say  good-bye." 

"  Wave  t'  the  eatin'-house  gals, — cain't  you  see 
'em  at  that  upper  winda?  " 

"  Cupid," — it  was  Hairoil,  and  he  put  a'  arm 
acrosst  my  shoulder — "  hope  you  f  ergive  me  f  er 
puttin'  up  that  shootin'-scrape." 

"  Why,  ^-course,  I  do." 

Then,  whisperin',  ff  She  was  the  gal  I  tole  you 
about  that  time,  Cupid:  The  one  I  said  I'd  marry 
you  off  to." 

"You  don't  mean  it!" 

"  I  do.  So — the  best  land  of  luck,  ole  socks !  " 

"  Aw,  thank  y',  Hairoil." 

Next,  pushin'  his  way  through  the  bunch,  I 
seen  Billy  Trowbridge,  somethin'  white^in  his 
hand.  "  Cupid,"  he  says, — into  my  ear,  so's  the 
others  couldn't  ketch  it — "  if  the  time  ever 
comes  when  the  little  gal  makes  a  big  success 
back  there  in  Noo  York,  'r  if  the  time  comes 
when  she's  thinkin'  some  of  startin'  home  t' 
Oklahomaw  again,  open  this.  It's  that  other 
letter  of  Up-State's." 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  237 

"  I  wiU,  Doc —I  will." 

I  clumb  the  steps  of  the  end  car  and  looked 
round  me.  On  the  one  side  was  the  mesquite,  all 
black  now,  and  quiet.  Say!  I  hated  t'  think  it 
didn't  stretch  all  the  way  East!  Here,  on  the 
other  side  was  the  deepot,  and  Dutchy's,  and 
the  bunk-house,  and  the  feed-shop,  and  Silver- 
stein's,  and  the  post-office 

"So  long,  Cupid!" — it  was  all-t'gether,  gals 
and  fellers,  too.  Then,  "  Yee-ee-ee-oop ! " — the 
ole  cow-punch  yell. 

"  So  long,  boys  1"  I  waved  my  Stetson. 

Next  thing,  Briggs  City  begun  t'  slip 
back'ards — slow  at  first,  then  faster  and  faster. 
The  hollerin'  of  the  bunch  got  sorta  fadey;  the 
deepot  lights  got  littler  and  littler.  Off  t'  the 
right,  a  new  light  sprung  up — it  was  the  lamp 
in  the  sjttin'-room  at  the  Bar  Y. 

"  Boss,"  I  says  out  loud,  "  they's  a  little,  empty 
rockin'-chair  byside  yourn  t'-night.  Wai,  I'll 
never  come  back  this  way  no  more  'less  you'  baby 
gal  is  home  at  the  ranch-house  again  t'  fill  it." 

Then,  I  picked  up  my  satchel  and  hunted  the 
day-coach. 

A-course,  when  I  reached  Chicago,  the  first 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

thing  I  done  was  to  take  a  fly  at  that  railroad  on 
stilts.  Next,  I  had  t'  go  over  and  turn  my  lan- 
terns on  the  lake.  Pretty  soon  I  was  so  all-fired 
broke-in  that  I  could  stand  on  a  street  corner 
without  bein'  hitched.  But  people  was  a-takin' 
me  fer  Bill  Cody,  and  the  kids  had  a  notion  to 
fall  in  behind  when  I  walked  any.  So  I  made 
myself  look  cityfied.  I  got  a  suit — a  nice,  kinda 
brownish-reddish  colour.  I  done  my  sombrero  up 
in  a  newspaper  and  purchased  a  round  hat,  black 
and  tumble  tony.  I  bought  me  some  sateen 
shirts, — black,  too,  with  turn-down  collars  and 
little  bits  of  white  stripes.  A  white  satin  tie  last 
of  all,  and,  say!  I  was  fixed! 

Wai,  after  seein'  Chicago,  it  stands  t'  reason 
that  Noo  York  cain't  git  a  feller  scairt  so  awful 
much.  Anyhow,  it  didn't  me.  The  minute  I  got 
off  en  the  train  at  the  Grand  Central,  I  got  my 
boots  greased  and  my  clothes  breshed;  then  I 
looked  up  one  of  them  Fourth  of  July  hitchin'- 
posts  and  had  my  jaw  scraped  and  my  mane  cut. 

"  Pardner,"  I  says  t'  the  barber  f eUer,  "  I 
want  t'  rent  a  cheap  room." 

"  Look  in  the  papers,"  he  advises. 

'Twixt  him  and  me,  we  located  a  place  afore 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  239 

long,  and  he  showed  me  how  t'  git  to  it.  Wai,  sir, 
I  was  settled  in  a  jiffy.  The  room  wasn't  bigger 
'n  a  two-spot,  and  the  bed  was  one  of  them  jack- 
knife  kind.  But  I  liked  the  looks  of  the  shebang. 
The  lady  that  run  it,  she  almost  fell  over  when  I 
tole  her  I  was  a  cow-punch. 

"Why!"  she  says,  "are  y'  shore?  You're  tall 
enough,  but  you're  a  little  thick-set.  I  thought 
all  cow-boys  was  very  slender." 

"  No,  ma'am,"  I  says;  "  we're  slender  in  books, 
I  reckon.  But  out  in  Oklahomaw  we  come  in  all 
styles." 

:<Wal,"  she  goes  on,  "they's  something  else 
I  want  to  ast.  Now,  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  shoot 
'round  here,  are  y'?  Would  you  just  as  lief  put 
you'  pistols  away  whilst  you're  in  my  house?" 

I  got  serious  then.  "Ma'am,"  I  says,  "  sorry 
I  cain't  oblige  y'.  But  the  boys  tole  me  a  gun  is 
plumb  needful  in  Noo  York.  When  it  comes  to 
killin'  and  robbin',  the  West  has  got  to  back 
outen  the  lead." 

You  oughta  saw  her  face! 

But  I  didn't  want  to  look  fer  no  other  room, 
so  I  pretended  t'  knuckle.  "  I  promise  net  to 
blow  out  the  gas  with  my  forty-five,"  I  says, 


240  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"  and  I  won't  rope  no  trolley  cars — if  you'll 
please  tell  me  where  folks  go  in  this  town  when 
they  want  t'  ride  a  hoss?" 

:<  Why,  in  Central  Park,"  she  answers,  "  on  the 
bridle  path." 

"  Thank  y',  ma'am,"  I  says,  and  lit  out. 

A-course,  'most  any  person  'd  wonder  what 
I'd  ast  the  boardin'-house  lady  that  f  er.  Wai,  I 
ast  it  'cause  I  knowed  Macie  Sewell  good  enough 
to  lay  my  money  on  one  thing :  She  was  too  all- 
fired  gone  on  bosses  to  stay  offen  a  saddle  more'n 
twenty-four  hours  at  a  stretch. 

I  passed  a  right  peaceful  afternoon,  a-settin' 
at  the  bottom  of  a  statue  of  a  man  ridin'  a  big 
bronc,  with  a  tall  lady  runnin'  ahaid  and  wavin' 
a  feather.  It  was  at  the  beginnin'  of  the  park, 
and  I  expected  t'  see  Mace  come  lopin'  by  any 
minute.  Sev'ral  gals  did  show  up,  and  one  'r  two 
of  'em  rid  off  on  bob-tailed  bosses,  follered  by 
gezabas  in  white  pants  and  doctor's  hats.  Heerd 
afterwards  they  was  grooms,  and  bein'  the  gals' 
broncs  was  bob-tailed,  they  had  to  go  'long  to 
keep  off  the  flies. 

But  Mace,  she  didn't  show  up.  Next  day,  I 
waited  same  way.  Day  after,  ditto.  Seemed  t' 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  241 

me  ev'ry  blamed  man,  woman  and  child  in  the 
hull  city  passed  me  but  her.  And  I  didn't  know 
a  one  of  'em.  A  Chink  come  by  oncet,  and  when 
I  seen  his  pig-tail  swingin',  I  felt  like  I  wanted 
to  shake  his  fist.  About  that  time  I  begun  to  git 
worried,  too.  "If  she  ain't  ridin',"  I  says  to  my- 
self, "  how  'm  I  ever  goin'  to  locate  her?" 

Another  day,  when  I  was  settin'  amongst  the 
kids,  watchin',  I  seen  a  feller  steerin'  my  way. 
:<  What's  this?"  I  says,  'cause  he  didn't  have  the 
spurs  of  a  decent  man. 

Wai,  when  he  came  clost,  he  begun  to  smile 
kinda  sloppy,  like  he'd  just  had  two  'r  three. 
"Why,  hello,  ole  boy,"  he  says,  puttin'  out  a 
bread-hooker;  "I  met  you  out  West,  didn't  I? 
How  are  y'  ?" 

I   had   the   sittywaytion   in   both    gauntlets. 

"  Why,  yas,"  I  answers,  "  and  I'm  tickled  to 
sight  a  familiar  face.  Fer  by  jingo!  I'm  busted. 
Can  you  loan  me  a  dollar?" 

He  got  kinda  sick  'round  the  gills.  "  Wai,  the 
fact  is,"  he  says,  swallerin'  two  'r  three  times, 
"  I'm  clean  broke  myself." 

Just  then  a  gal  with  a  pink  cinch  comes 
walkin'  along.  She  was  one  of  them  Butte-belle 


242  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

lookin'  ladies,  with  blazin'  cheeks,  and  hair  that's 
a  cross  'twixt  molasses  candy  and  the  pelt  of  a 
kit-fox.  She  was  leadin'  a  dog  that  looked 
plumb  ashamed  of  hisself . 

"Pretty  gal,"  says  the  mealy-mouthed  gent, 
grinnin'  some  more.  "  And  I  know  her.  Like  t' 
he  interdooced?" 

"Don't  bother,"  I  says.  '(Her  hay  was  a  little 
too  weathered  fer  me.} 

"  Nice  red  cheeks,"  he  says,  rubbin'  his  paws 
t'gether. 

"Ya-a-as,"  I  says,  "mighty  nice.  But  you 
oughta  see  the  squaws  out  in  Oklahomaw.  They 
varies  it  with  yalla  and  black." 

He  give  me  a  kinda  keen  look.  Then  he 
moseyed. 

It  wasn't  more  Jn  a'  hour  afterwards  when 
somebody  passed  that  I  knowed — in  one  of  them 
dinky,  little  buggies  that  ain't  got  no  cover. 
Who  d'  you  think  it  was? — that  Doctor  Bugs! 

I  was  at  his  boss's  haid  'fore  ever  he  seen  me. 
"  Hole  up,  Simpson,"  I  says,  "  I  want  t'  talk  to 
you." 

"Why,  Alec  Lloyd!"  he  says. 
"  That's  my  name." 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher    ,         243 

"  How  'd  you  git  here?"  He  stuck  out  one  of 
them  soft  paws  of  hisn. 

:'  Wai,  I  got  turned  this  way,  and  then  I  just 
follered  my  nose."  (I  didn't  take  his  hand.  I'd 
as  soon  'a'  touched  a  snake.) 

"Wai,  I'm  glad  t'  see  you."  (That  was  a 
whopper.)  "How's  ev'rybody  in  Briggs?" 

"  Never  you  mind  about  Briggs.  I  want  t'  ast 
you  somethin':  Where's  Macie  Sewell?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Don't  tell  me  that,"  I  come  back.  "  I  know 
you're  lyin'.  When  you  talked  that  gal  into 
the  op'ra  business,  you  had  'a'  ax  t'  grind,  yas, 
you  did.  Now,  where  is  she?" 

He  looked  plumb  nervous.  "  I  tell  y',  I  don't 
know,"  he  answers;  "honest,  I  don't.  I've  saw 
her  just  oncet — the  day  after  she  got  here.  I  of- 
fered t'  do  anythin'  I  could  f er  her,  but  she 
didn't  seem  t'  appreciate  my  kindness." 

"All  right,"  I  says.  "But,  Simpson,  listen: 
If  you've  said  a  word  t'  that  gal  that  you  oughtn't 
to,  'r  if  you've  follered  'round  after  her  any 
when  she  didn't  want  you  should,  you'll  hear  from 
me.  Salt  that  down."  And  I  let  him  go. 

Meetin'  him  that-a-way,  made  me  feel  a  heap 


244  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

better.  If  I  could  run  into  the  only  man  I 
knowed  in  the  city  of  Xoo  York,  then,  some- 
time, I'd  shore  come  acrosst  her. 

That  was  the  last  day  I  set  on  the  steps  of  the 
statue.  About  sundown,  I  ast  a  police  feller  if 
anybody  could  ride  in  the  park  without  me  seein' 
'em  from  where  I  was.  "  Why,  yas,"  he  says, 
"they's  plenty  of  entrances,  all  right.  This  is 
just  where  a  few  comes  in  and  out.  The  best 
way  to  see  the  riders  is  to  go  ride  you'self ." 

Don't  know  why  I  didn't  think  of  that  afore. 
But  I  didn't  lose  no  time.  Next  mornin',  I  was 
up  tumble  early  and  makin'  fer  a  barn  clost  to 
the  park.  I  found  one  easy — pretty  frequent 
thereabouts,  y*  savvy, — and  begun  t'  dicker  on 
rentin'  a  boss.  Prices  was  high,  but  I  done  my 
best,  and  they  led  out  a  nag.  And  what  do  you 
think?  It  had  on  one  of  them  saddles  with  no 
horn, — a  shore  enough  muley. 

Say!  that  was  a  hard  proposition.  "  I  ast 
fer  a  saddle,"  I  says,  "not  a  postage  stamp." 
But  the  stable-keeper  didn't  have  no  other.  So  I 
got  on  and  rode  slow.  When  I  struck  the  tim- 
ber, I  felt  better,  and  I  started  my  bronc  up. 
She  was  one  of  them  kind  that  can  go  all  day  on 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  245 

a  shingle.  And  her  front  legs  acted  plumb 
funny — jerked  up  and  down.  I  figgered  it  was 
the  spring  halt.  But  pretty  soon  I  seen  other 
hosses  goin'  the  same  way.  So  I  s waller ed  it,  like 
I  done  the  saddle. 

But  they  was  one  thing  about  my  cayuse  made 
me  hot.  She  wouldn't  lope.  No,  ma'am,  it  was 
trot,  trot,  trot,  trot,  till  the  roots  of  my  hair  was 
loose,  and  the  lights  was  near  shook  outen  me. 
You  bet  I  was  mighty  glad  none  of  the  outfit 
could  see  me! 

But  if  they'd  'a*  thought  I  was  funny,  they'd 
'a'  had  a  duck-fit  at  what  I  seen.  First  a  passel 
of  men  come  by,  all  in  bloomers,  humpin'  fast, — 
up  and  down,  up  and  down — Monkey  Mike, 
shore's  you  live!  None  of  'em  looked  joyful,  and 
you  could  pretty  nigh  hear  they  knees  squeak! 
(Then  'long  come  a  gal,  humpin'  just  the  same, 
and  hangin'  on  to  the  side  of  her  cayuse  f  er  dear 
life,  lookin'  ev'ry  step  like  she  was  goin'  to 
avalanche.  And  oncet  in  a  while  I  passed  a  feller 
that  was  runnin'  a  cultivator  down  the  trail, — 
to  keep  it  nice  and  soft,  I  reckon,  f  er  the  ladies 
and  gents  t'  fall  on. 

But  whilst  I  was  gettin'  kinda  used  to  things, 


246  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

I  didn't  stop  keepin'  a'  eye  out.  I  went  clean 
'round  the  track  twicet.  No  Macie.  I  tell  y',  I 
begun  to  feel  sorta  caved-in.  Then,  all  of  a  sud- 
dent,  just  as  I  was  toppin'  a  little  rise  of  ground, 
I  seen  her ! 

She  wasn't  hangin'  on  to  the  side  of  her  hoss, 
no,  ma'am!  She  was  ridin'  the  prettiest  kind  of 
a  bronc,  fat  and  sassy.  And  she  was  settin* 
a-straddle,  straight  and  graceful,  in  a  spick-and- 
span  new  suit,  and  a  three-cornered  hat  like 
George  Washington. 

I  let  out  a  yell  that  would  'a'  raised  the  hair 
of  a  reservation  Injun.  "Macie  Sewell!"  I 
says — just  like  that.  I  give  my  blamed  little  nag 
a  hit  that  put  her  into  her  jerky  trot.  And  I 
come  'longside,  humpin'  like  Sam  Hill. 

She  pulled  her  hoss  down  to  a  standstill;  and 
them  long  eye-winkers  of  hern  lifted  straight 
up  into  the  air,  she  was  so  surprised.  "Alec!" 
she  says. 

"  Yas,  Alec,"  I  answers.  "  Aw,  dear  little  gal, 
is  y'  glad  t'  see  me?" 

"Wai,  what  're  you  doin'  here!"  she  goes  on. 
"  I  cain't  hardly  believe  what  I  see." 

I  was  so  blamed  flustered,  and  so  happy,  and 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  247 

so — so  scairt,  that  I  had  t'  go  say  the  one  thing 
that  was  plumb  foolish.  "I'm  on  hand  t*  take 
you  back  home  if  you're  ready,"  I  answers. 
(Hole  on  till  I  give  myself  another  good,  ten- 
hoss-power  kick!) 

Up  till  now,  her  look  'd  been  all  friendly 
enough.  But  now  of  a  suddent  it  got  cold  and 
offish.  "Take  me  home!"  she  begun;  "home! 
Wai,  I  like  that!  Why,  I'm  just  about  t'  make 
a  great,  big  success,  yas.  And  I'll  thank  you  not 
t'  spoil  my  chanst  with  any  more  of  you'  tricks." 
She  swung  her  bronc  round  into  the  trail. 

"Macie!  Spoil  you'  chanst!"  I  answers. 
"  Why,  honey,  I  wouldn't  do  that.  I  only  want 
t'  be  friends " 

Her  eyes  can  give  out  fire  just  like  her  paw's. 
And  when  I  said  that,  she  give  me  one  turrible 
mad  stare.  Then,  she  throwed  up  her  chin, 
spurred  her  bronc,  and  went  trottin'  off, 
a-humpin'  the  same  as  the  rest  of  the  ladies. 

I  follered  after  her  as  fast  as  I  could. 
"  Macie,"  I  says,  "  talk  ain't  goin'  t'  show  you 
how  I  feel.  And  I'll  not  speak  to  you  again  till 
you  want  me  to.  But  I'll  allus  be  clost  by.  And 
if  ever  you  need  me " 


248  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

She  set  her  hoss  into  a  run  then.  So  I  fell  be- 
hind— and  come  nigh  pullin'  the  mouth  plumb 
outen  that  crow-bait  I  was  on.  "  Wai,  Mister 
Cupid,"  I  says  to  myself,  "  that  Kansas  cyclone 
the  boss  talked  about  seems  t'  be  still  a-movin'." 

I  wasn't  discouraged,  though, — I  wasn't  dis- 
couraged. 

"  One  of  these  times,"  I  says,  "  she'll  come  t' 
know  that  I  only  want  t'  help  her." 

Next  mornin',  I  started  my  jumpin'-jack 
business  again.  And  that  whack,  I  shore  got  a 
rough  layout:  'Round  and  'round  that  blamed 
park,  two  hunderd  and  f  orty-'leven  times,  with- 
out grub,  'r  a  drink,  'r  even  water!  And  me 
a-hirin'  that  hoss  l>y  the  hour! 

Just  afore  sundown,  she  showed  up,  and 
passed  me  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  spot  about 
two  miles  further  on.  A  little  huffy,  yet,  y' 
might  say! 

I  joked  to  that  three-card-monte  feller,  you 
recollect,  about  bein'  busted.  Wai,  it  was  be- 
ginnin'  t'  look  like  no  joke.  'Cause  that  very 
next  day  I  took  some  stuff  acrosst  the  street  to 
a  pawnbroker  gent's,  and  hocked  it.  Then  I  sit 
down  and  writ  a  postal  card  t'  the  boys.  "Pass 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  249 

'round  the  liat"  I  says  on  the  postal  card,  "  and 
send  me  the  collection.  Bar  that  Mexic.  Par- 
ticulars later  on.3' 

Wai,  fer  a  week,  things  run  smooth.  When 
Mace  seen  it  was  no  use  to  change  the  time  fer 
her  ride,  she  kept  to  the  mornin'.  It  saved  me  a 
pile.  But  she  wouldn't  so  much  as  look  at  me. 
Aw,  I  felt  fewey,  just  fewey. 

One  thing  I  didn't  figger  on,  though — that 
was  the  police.  They're  white,  all  right  (I  mean 
the  police  that  ride  'round  the  park).  Pretty 
soon,  they  noticed  I  was  allus  ridin'  behind 
Macie.  I  guess  they  thought  I  was  tryin'  to 
bother  her.  Anyhow,  one  of  'em  stopped  me  one 
mornin'.  "  Young  feller,"  he  says,  "  you'd  better 
ride  along  Riverside  oncet  in  a  while.  Ketch 
on?" 

"  Yas,  sir,"  I  says,  salutin*. 

Wai,  I  was  up  a  stump.  If  I  was  to  be  druv 
out  of  the  park,  how  was  I  ever  goin'  to  be  on 
hand  when  Macie  'd  take  a  notion  t'  speak. 

But  I  hit  on  a  plan  that  was  somethin'  won- 
derful. I  f ollered  her  out  and  found  where  she 
stalled  her  hoss.  Next  day,  I  borraed  a'  outfit 
and  waited  nigh  her  barn  till  she  come  in  sight. 


250  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Then,  I  fell  in  behind — dressed  like  one  of  them 
blamed  grooms. 

I  thought  I  was  slick,  and  I  was — f  er  a  week. 
But  them  park  police  is  rapid  on  faces.  And  the 
first  one  that  got  a  good  square  look  at  me  and 
my  togs  knowed  me  instant.  He  didn't  say 
nothin'  to  me,  but  loped  off.  Pretty  soon,  an- 
other one  come  back — a  moustached  gent,  a  right 
dudey  one,  with  yalla  tucks  on  his  sleeves. 

He  rides  square  up  to  me.  "  Say,"  he  says, 
"  are  you  acquainted  with  that  young  lady  on 
ahaid?" 

I  tried  to  look  as  sad  and  innocent  as  a  stray 
maverick.  But  it  was  no  go.  "  Wai,"  I  answers, 
"  our  hosses  nicker  to  each  other." 

He  pulled  at  his  moustache  f  er  a  while.  ee  You 
ain't  no  groom,"  he  says  fin'lly.  "  Where  you 
from?" 

"  I'm  from  the  Bar  Y  Ranch,  Oklahomaw." 

"That  so!"  It  seemed  to  plumb  relieve  him. 
All  of  a  suddent,  he  got  as  friendly  as  the  devil. 
"  Wai,  how's  the  stock  business?"  he  ast.  And  I 
says,  "  Cows  is  O.  K."  "  And  how's  the  climate 
down  you'  way?  And  how's  prospects  of  the 
country  openin'  up  fer  farmers?" 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  251 

After  that,  I  shed  the  groom  duds,  and  not  a 
police  gent  ever  more  'n  nodded  at  me.  That 
Bar  Y  news  seemed  to  make  'em  shore  easy  in 
they  conscience. 

But  that  didn't  help  me  any  with  her.  She 
was  just  as  offish  as  ever.  Why,  one  day  when  it 
rained,  and  we  got  under  the  same  bridge,  she 
just  talked  to  her  hoss  all  the  time. 

I  went  home  desp'rate.  The  boys  'd  sent  me 
some  cash,  but  I  was  shy  again.  And  I'd  been  to 
the  pawnbroker  feller's  so  many  times  that  I 
couldn't  look  a  Jew  in  the  face  without  takin' 
out  my  watch. 

That  night  I  mailed  postal  number  two. 
'  Take  up  a  collection,"  I  says  again;  and  added, 
"  Pull  that  greaser's  laig." 

I  knowed  it  couldn't  alms  go  on  like  that. 
And,  by  jingo!  seems  as  if  things  come  my  way 
again.  Fer  one  mornin',  when  I  was  settin'  in  a 
caify  eatin'  slap-jacks,  I  heerd  some  fellers 
talkin'  about  a  herd  of  Texas  bosses  that  had 
stampeded  in  the  streets  the  night  back.  Wai,  I 
ast  'em  a  question  'r  two,  and  then  I  lit  out  f er 
Sixty-four  Street,  my  eyes  plumb  sore  fer  a 
look  at  a  Western  hoss  with  a'  ingrowin'  lope. 


252  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

When  I  got  to  the  corral,  what  do  you  think? 
Right  in  front  of  my  eyes,  a-lookin'  at  the  herd, 
and  a-pointin'  out  her  pick,  was— Macie  Sewell! 

I  didn't  let  her  see  me.  I  just  started  fer  a 
Harness  shop,  and  I  bought  a  pair  of  spurs. 
"Prepare,  m'  son,"  I  says  to  myself;  "it'll  all 
be  over  soon.  They's  goin'  to  be  trouble,  Cupid, 
trouble,  when  Mace  tries  to  ride  a  Texas  bronc 
with  a  city  edication  that  ain't  complete." 

She  didn't  show  up  in  the  park  that  day.  I 
jigged  'round,  just  the  same,  workin'  them 
spurs.  But  early  next  mornin',  as  I  done  time  on 
my  postage  stamp,  here  Mace  huv  in  sight. 

Shore  enough,  she  was  on  a  new  boss.  It  was 
one  of  them  blue  roans,  with  a  long  tail,  and  a 
reached  mane.  Gen'ally  that  breed  can  go  like 
greased  lightnin',  and  outlast  any  other  critter 
on  four  laigs.  But  this  one  didn't  put  up  much 
speed  that  trip.  She'd  been  car-bound  seventeen 
days. 

Clost  behind  her,  I  come,  practicin'  a  knee 
grip. 

Nothin'  happened  that  mornin'.  Ev'ry  time 
she  got  where  the  trail  runs  'longside  the  wagon- 
road,  none  of  them  locoed  bull's-eye  Simpson 


A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  253 

vehicles  was  a-passin'.  When  she  went  to  go  into 
her  stable,  Mace  slowed  her  down  till  the  street 
cars  was  gone  by.  The  blue  roan  was  meeker  'n 
a  blind  purp. 

But  I  knowed  it  couldn't  last. 

The  next  afternoon  the  roan  come  good  and 
ready.  She  done  a  fancy  gait  into  the  park. 
Say!  a  J.  I.  C.  bit  couldn't  a'  belt  her!  'Twixt 
Fifty-nine  and  the  resservoyer,  she  lit  just  four 
times;  and  ev'ry  time  she  touched,  she  kicked 
dirt  into  the  eyes  of  the  stylish  police  gent  that 
was  keepin'  in  handy  reach.  A  little  further 
north,  where  they's  a  hotel,  she  stood  on  her  hind 
laigs  t'  look  at  the  scenery. 

I  begun  to  git  scairt.  "  Speak  'r  no  speak," 
I  says  to  myself,  "  I'm  goin'  to  move  up." 

That  very  minute,  things  come  to  a  haid! 

We  was  all  three  turned  south,  when  'long 
come  a  goggle-eyed  smarty  in  one  of  them 
snortin'  Studebakers.  The  second  the  smarty 
seen  Mace  was  pretty,  he  blowed  his  horn  to 
make  her  look  at  him.  Wai!  that  roan  turned 
tail  and  come  nigh  t'  doin*  a  leap-frog  over  me. 
The  skunk  in  the  buzz-wagon  tooted  again.  And 
we  was  off! 


254  A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

We  took  the  return  trip  short  cut.  First  we 
hit  the  brush,  Mace's  boss  breakin'  trail,  mine  a 
clost  second,  the  police  gent  number  three.  Then 
we  hit  open  country,  where  they's  allus  a  lot  of 
young  fellers  and  gals  battin'  balls  over  fly- 
nets.  The  crowd  scattered,  and  we  sailed  by, 
takin'  them  nets  like  claim- jumpers.  I  heerd  a 
whistle  ahaid  oncet,  and  seen  a  fat  policeman 
runnin'  our  way,  wavin'  his  arms.  Then  we  went 
tearin'  on, — no  stops  fer  stations — 'round  the 
lake,  down  a  road  that  was  thick  with  keerages, 
— beatin'  ev'rybody  in  sight — then  into  timber 
again. 

It  was  that  takin'  to  the  woods  the  second  time 
that  done  it.  In  Central  Park  is  a  place  where 
they  have  ducks  and  geese  (keep  the  Mayor  in 
aigs,  I  heerd).  Wai,  just  to  east,  like,  of  that 
place,  is  a  butte,  all  rocks  and  wash-outs.  The 
blue  roan  made  that  butte  slick  as  a  Rocky 
Mountain  goat.  (We'd  shook  off  the  police 
gent.)  At  the  top,  she  pitched  plumb  over,  losin* 
Mace  so  neat  it  didn't  more  'n  jar  her.  My  boss 
got  down  on  his  knees,  and  I  come  off  en  my 
perch.  Then  both  broncs  went  on. 

I  was  winded,  so  I  didn't  speak  up  fer  a  bit. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  255 

Fact  is,  I  didn't  exac'ly  know  what  to  remark. 
Oncet  I  thought  I'd  say,  "  You  ridin'  a  diff'rent 
hoss  t'day,  Mace?"  'r  "  That  roan  of  yourn  can 
lope  some."  But  both  bein'  kinda  personal,  I 
kept  still. 

But  pretty  soon,  I  got  a  hunch.  "I  just 
kn&wed  that  blamed  muley  saddle  'd  butt  me  off 
some  day,"  I  says.  "  It  was  shore  accomodatin', 
though,  to  let  me  down  right  here." 

She  didn't  say  nothin'.  She  was  settin  agin  a 
tree,  another  of  them  two-mile  looks  in  her  eyes, 
and  she  was  gazin'  off  west. 

I  lent  her  way  just  a  little.  "What  you 
watchin',  honey?"  I  ast. 

She  blushed,  awful  cute. 

I  could  feel  my  heart  movin'  like  a  circular 
saw — two  ways  fer  Sunday.  "  Honey,  what 
you  watchin'?"  This  time  I  kinda  whispered  it. 

She  reached  fer  her  George  Washington,  and 
begun  fixin'  to  go.  "  .The  sky,"  she  says,  some 
short. 

I  sighed,  and  pretended  t'  watch  the  sky,  too. 
It  looked  yalla,  like  somebody  'd  hit  it  with  a 
aig. 

After  while,  I  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer — I 


256  A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

started  in  again.  "  Give  me  a  fair  shake,  Macie," 
I  says.  I  was  lookin'  at  her.  Say!  they  wasn't 
no  squaw  paint  on  her  cheeks,  and  no  do- funny, 
drug-store  stuff  in  that  pretty  hair  of  hern.  And 
them  grey  eyes ! 

But  she  seemed  a  hull  county  off  from  me, 
and  they  was  a  right  cold  current  blowin'  in  my 
Erection. 

"  Mace,"  I  begun  again,  "  since  you  come  t' 
Noo  York  you  ain't  got  you'self  promised,  'r 
nothin'  like  that,  have  you?  If  you  have,  I'll  go 
back  and  make  that  Briggs  City  bunch  look  like 
a  lot  of  colanders." 

She  shook  her  haid. 

"Aw,  Mace!"  I  says,  tumble  easied  in  my 
mind.  "And — and,  little  gal,  has  that  bug  doc 
been  a-holdin'  down  a  chair  at  you'  house  of 
Sunday  nights?  " 

"  No, — he  come  just  oncet." 

"Why  just  oncet,  honey?" 

"  I  didn't  want  him  t'  come  no  more." 

"He  said  somethin'  insultin.'  J  know.  And 
•when  I  see  him  again " 

She  looked  at  me  square  then,  and  I  seen  a 
shine  in  them  sweet  eyes.  "  Alec,"  she  says, 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  257 

"you  ast  me  oncet  t'  cut  that  man  out.  Wai, 
when  I  got  here,  it  was  the  only  thing  I  could  do 
f  er — fer  you." 

"My  little  gal! — and  nobody  else  ain't  been 
visitin'  you.  Aw!  I'm  a  jealous  critter!" 

"Nobody  else.  People  ain't  very  sociable 
here."  Her  lip  kinda  trembled. 

That  hurt  me,  and  I  run  outen  talk,  fer  all  I 
had  a  heap  t'  say.  They  was  a  lot  of  twitterin' 
goin'  on  overhaid,  and  she  was  peekin'  up  and 
'round,  showing  a  chin  that  was  enough  t'  coop 
the  little  birds  right  outen  the  trees. 

I  lent  closter.  "  Say,  Mace,"  I  begun  again, 
"  ain't  this  park  O.  K.  fer  green  grass?  I  reckon 
the  Bar  Y  cows  'd  like  to  be  turned  loose  here." 

She  smiled  a  little,  awful  tender.  "Bar  Y!" 
she  says,  pullin'  at  her  gauntlets. 

It  give  me  spunk.  "  Mace,"  I  says  again,  "  if 
I'd  'a'  been  mean,  I'd  'a'  let  the  parson  go  on 
marryin'  us,  wouldn't  I?  Did  you  ever  think  of 
that,  little  gal?" 

She  looked  down,  blinkin'. 

I  reached  over  and  got  holt  of  one  of  her 
hands.  I  was  breathin'  like  pore  Up-State, 
"Honey,"  I  says,  "honey,  dear." 


258  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

She  looked  square  at  me.  "  Alec,"  she  says, 
*'  you  didn't  understand  me.  I  ain't  the  kind  of  a 
gal  that  can  be  roped  and  hobbled  and  led  on  a 
hackamore." 

"  And  you  ain't  the  kind  t'  dance  with  greas- 
ers," I  says,  " — if  you're  thinkin'  back  to  our  first 
little  fuss.  NOj  you  ain't.  You're  too  darned 
nice  f  er  such  cattle." 

By  then,  I  was  shakin'  like  I  had  the  buck- 
fever.  "Macie,"  I  goes  on,  "ain't  you  goin'  t' 
let  me  come  and  see  you? " 

"Wai— wal "  " 

I  got  holt  of  her  other  hand.  "Aw,  little 
gal,"  I  says, <e  nobody  wants  you  t'  win  out  more 
'n  I  do.  Z'm  no  dawg-in-the-manger,  Macie. 
You  got  a'  awful  fine  voice.  Go  ahaid — and  be 
the  biggest  singer  in  Amuricaw.  But,  honey, — 
that  needn't  t'  keep  you  from  likin'  me — from 
likin'  ole  Alec,  that  cain't  live  without  his  dear 
little  gal " 

"  I  do  like  y' !  And  didn't  I  allus  say  you  was 
t'  come  on  when  I  made  a  success  ?" 

She  come  into  my  arms  then.  And,  aw!  I 
knowed  just  how  lonesome  she'd  been,  pore  little 
sweetheart !  by  the  way  she  clung  t'  me. 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  259 

"Alec!— my  Alec!" 

"Never  mind!  honey  dear,  never  mind!  I'm 
here  t'  take  keer  of  y'." 

Pretty  soon,  I  says,  "  Macie,  I  hought  some- 
thin'  fer  you  a  while  back."  (I  felt  in  my  vest 
pocket.)  "  Here  it  is.  WiU  you  look  at  it? " 

She  looked.  And  her  pretty  face  got  all  smiles 
and  blushes,  and  her  eyes  tearful.  "Alec!"  she 
whispered.  "Aint  it  beautifull"  And  she 
reached  out  her  left  hand  t'  me. 

I  took  it  in  both  of  mine — clost,  fer  a  second. 
Then  I  sorted  out  that  slim  third  finger  of  hern, 
— and  slipped  on  my  little  brandin'-iron. 


CHAPTER    TEN 
MACIE    AND    THE    OP'RA   GAME 

THE  street  Mace  lived  on  was  tumble  narra. 
Why,  if  a  long-horn  had  'a'  been  druv  through  it, 
he  could  'a'  just  give  a  wiggle  of  his  haid  and 
busted  all  the  windas  in  the  block.  And  her 
house !  It  was  nigh  as  dark  as  the  inside  of  a  cow, 
and  I  judged  they  was  a  last-year's  cabbage 
a-wanderin'  'round  somewheres.  Wai,  never  mind. 
Two  shakes  of  a  lamb's  tail,  and  I'd  clumb  about 
a  hunderd  steps  and — 

"  How  are  y',little  gal? " 

"  Alive  and  kickin',  Alec." 

She  ast  me  in.  A  kinda  ole  lady  was  over  to 
one  side,  cookin'.  At  a  table  was  two  gents,  the 
one  young,  with  a  complexion  like  the  bottom- 
side  of  a  watermelon;  the  other  about  fifty,  with 
a  long  coat,  a  vest  all  over  coffee,  and  no  more 
chin'n  a  gopher. 

"Mrs.  Whipple,"  says  Macie,  "Mister 
Lloyd." 

260 


1  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  261 

"  Ma'am,  I'm  tickled  t'  death." 

"Hair  Von"  (somethin'-r'-other),  "Mister 
Lloyd."  (Don't  wonder  she  called  him  "hair" 
By  thunder!  he  had  a  mane  two  feet  long!) 
"And  Mister  Jones."  (I  ketched  that  name 

o.  K.y 

"  Mister  Lloyd,"  says  the  ole  lady,  "  will  you 
have  some  breakfast?" 

I  felt  like  sayin'  they  'd  likely  be  blamed  little 
fer  me,  'cause  them  two  gezabas  was  just  a-hop- 
pinj  it  in  to  'em.  But  I  only  answers,  "  Thank  y', 
I  just  et  in  one  of  them  bong-tong  rest'rants 
that's  down  in  a  cellar,  and  so,  ma'am,  my  bread- 
basket's plumb  full." 

I  sit  down  on  a  trunk  (it  had  a  tidy  over  it,  but 
I  knowed  it  was  a  trunk  all  right),  and  Macie, 
she  sit  down  byside  me. 

"Alec,"  she  begun, — say!  she  looked  mighty 
sweet !—  "  t'-night  is  a'  awful  important  night 
in  my  life.  I  been  a-studyin'  with  Hair  Von  " 
(you  know),  "and  now  I'm  a-goin'  to  have  a 
recital.  And  what  d'  you  think?  Seenyer"  (I 
fergit  who,  this  minute) ,  "  the  grea-a-at  impress- 
yroa,  is  comin'  to  hear  me.  And  he's  goin'  to  put 
me  into  grand  op'ra." 


262  Alec  Lloyd,    Cowpuncher 

"You  don't  say!" 

'*  Yas,"  says  Long-hair,  swellin'  up.  '  The 
Seenyer  is  my  friend,  and  any  favour " 

I  turned  and  looked  clost  at  Macie.  Her  face 
was  all  alive,  she  was  so  happy,  and  her  eyes  was 
dancin'.  "You're  a-goin'  t'  make  you'  big  stab 
t'-night,"  I  says.  "  Wai,  I  shore  wish  you  luck." 

Then  I  took  another  look  at  that  Perfessor — 
and  of  a  suddent  I  begun  to  wonder  if  all  the 
cards  was  on  the  table.  'Cause  he  was  too  oily  to 
be  genuwine.  And  I'd  saw  his  stripe  afore — 
"  even  up  on  the  red  and  white,  five  to  one  on  the 
blue,  and  ten  to  one  on  the  numbers." 

"  She'll  be  a  second  Patty,"  he  says,  puttin' 
out  a  bread-hooker  fer  more  feed. 

"  I'll  take  another  slice  of  toast,"  says  Melon- 
face,  "  and  a'  aig  and  a  third  cup — it's  so  good, 
Miss  Sewell,  I'm  really  ashamed,,  yas,  I  am" 

After  that,  I  didn't  say  much — just  plumb 
petryfied  watchin'  them  two  gents  shovel.  Talk 
about  you*  grizzly  in  the  springtime!  And  you 
bet  they  was  no  gittin'  shet  of  'em  till  they  could- 
n't hole  no  more. 

But,  fin'lly,  they  moseyed,  and  me  and  Macie 
and  the  ole  lady  had  a  chin.  It  come  out  that 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  263 

Long-hair  (and  his  friend)  showed  up  ev'ry 
mornin'. 

"And  allus  gits  his  breakfast,"  I  says. 

"Wai,  in  Noo  York,  folks  drop  'round  that 
— a-way,"  she  answers.  "  It's  Bohemia." 

"  Bohemia — you  mean  a  kinda  free  hand- 
out." 

"  Alec !  No!  Bohemians  diwy  with  each 
other." 

"  Seem's  t'  me  Macie  Sewell  does  most  of  the 
diwyinV 

'  You  don't  understand,"  she  says.  "  People 
with  artistic  temper'ments  don't  think  about  such 
— such  common  things." 

"No?  Just  the  same,  that  artistic  team  of 
yourn  was  shore  stuck  on  boiled  aigs." 

That  ruffled  her  up  some.  "Alec,"  she  says, 
"you  mustn't  run  down  the  Perfessor.  He's  a 
big  musician." 

"  Wai,"  I  answers,  "  if  hair  makes  a  big  musi- 
cian, 'Pache  Sam  oughta  lead  the  band." 

"  And  he's  been  awful  good  to  me.  Why,  he's 
let  go  dozens  and  dozens  of  rich  pupils  to  come 
here  ev'ry  day  and  give  me  my  lesson." 

"Per  how  much?" 


264  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"What?"  She  got  red. 

"  Fer  how  much?  "  I  ast  again. 

"  Five  dollars,"  she  answers. 

I  snickered. 

" But  he  charges  all  the  others  ten"  she  puts 
in  quick.  "  He  come  down  in  the  price  'cause  he 
[was  so  wrapped  up  in  my  career." 

"  Money  lastin'? "  I  ast,  and  looked  at  the  ole 
lady. 

She  give  me  the  high  sign. 

But  Macie  answered  cheerful.  "  It's  carried  me 
good  so  far,"  she  says ;  "  and  after  t'-night  I  can 
stand  on  my  own  feet." 

"Reckon  you  won't  mind  my  comin'  t'  Hear 
you,"  I  says.  ('Cause  I'd  got  a'  idear  what  I  was 
goin'  to  do.)1  She  said  come  ahaid.  Then  I  skun 
out. 

First  off,  I  hunted  one  of  them  sun-bonnet 
keeriges.  The  feller  that  owned  it  was  h'isted 
'way  up  on  top,  and  he  had  a  face  like  a  cured 
ham.  I  tole  him  who  I  was  goin'  t'  visit,  and  ast 
him  what  'd  be  the  damage  if  he  carted  me  that 
ifar.  He  said  a  two  spot  'd  do  the  trick,  so  I  dumb 
in,  he  give  his  broomtail  a  lick,  and  we  was  off  in 
a  bunch. 


A  lee  Lloyd,    Cowpuncher  265 

Wai,  f er  the  balance  of  that  day,  you  can  bet 
I  didn't  let  no  grass  sprout  under  my  moccasins. 
And  when  I  turned  up,  'twixt  eight  and  nine 
o'clock  at  that  recital,  I  was  a-smilin'  like  Teddy 
— and  loaded  fer  bear! 

It  was  at  Long-Hair's  shebang.  He  took  me 
into  a  big  room  where  they  was  about  a  dozen 
ladies  and  gents.  But  I  couldn't  hardly  see  'em. 
They  was  plenty  of  gas  fixin's,  only  he  had  'em 
turned  'way  down,  and  little  red  parasol- jiggers 
over  'em.  And  they  was  some  punk-sticks 
a-burnin'  in  a  corner. 

If  you  want  t'  ast  me,  I  think  I  hit  the  funny 
spot  of  that  bunch  right  good  and  hard.  The 
women  kinda  giggled  at  each  other,  and  the  men 
cocked  they  eyes  at  the  ceilin'  and  put  they  hands 
to  they  mouths.  But  I  wasn't  nigh  as  big  a  freak 
to  them  as  they  was  t'  me! 

"  Say! "  I  says  to  Made,  'way  low,  "  where  'd 
you  round  up  this  passel  of  what-is-its?  " 

"  Ssh!  "  she  whispers  back.  "  They'll  hear  you! 
Most  of  'em  is  big  artists." 

"No!"  I  got  tumble  solemn.  "Have  they 
brought  they  temper'ments  with  'em?  " 

She  laughed. 


266  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

"  Now,  'don't  devil  me,  Alec,"  she  says.  "  But 
honest,  ain't  this  Bohemian  atmosphere  just 
grand?  " 

"  Wai,"  I  says,  sniffin'  it,  "  it  reminds  me  of  a 
Chinee  wash-house." 

That  wasn't  the  worst  of  it.  The  men  was 
tankin'  up  like  the  Ole  Harry — right  in  front  of 
the  women!  And  on  beer!  What  d'  you  think! 
Beer! 

And  the  ladies — say!  if  they  was  t'  wear 
them  kind  of  dresses  out  our  wray  (not  more'n  a 
pocket-handkerchief  of  cloth  in  the  waist,  that's 
straight),  why,  they  'd  git  run  in  to  the  cooler 
shore.  And,  by  thunder!  some  of  'em  was  smok- 
in'!  SmoJdn'!  And  they  wasn't  a  greaser  gal 
amongst  'em,  neither. 

:'What  kind  of  a  place  I  got  in  to?"  I  ast 
Macie.  Gee!  I  felt  tumble. 

"  Ssh!  Long-hair  is  goin'  to  play  a  pyano  piece 
he  made  up  a-a-all  by  hisself ." 

And  he  done  it.  First,  he  goes  soft,  fingerin' 
up  and  down,  and  movin'  from  side  t'  side  like  his 
chair  was  hot.  Then,  he  took  a  runnin'  jump  at 
hisself  and  worked  harder.  But  they  wasn't  the 
sign  of  a  tune — just  jiggles.  Next,  by  jingo!  it 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  267 

was  help  you'self  to  the  gravy!  He  everlastin'ly 
lambasted  them  keys,  and  knocked  the  lights 
plumb  outen  that  pore  instrument. 

Jumpin'  buffalo!  I  got  t'  laughin*  so  I  kinda 
tipped  over  again  a'  iron  thing  that  was  set  clost 
to  the  wall,  and  come  blamed  nigh  burnin'  the 
hand  off  en  me. 

When  I  come  to,  he  was  done  and  down,  and  a 
bleached  lady,  so  whitewashed  and  painted  she 
was  plumb  disguised,  was  settin'  afore  the  pyano. 
Then  up  gits  a  tall  gal,  skinny,  long  neck,  f  orrid 
like  a  fish,  hair  that  hadn't  been  curried  since 
week  a-fore  last. 

She  begun  t'  sing  like  a  dyin'  calf — eyes  shut, 
and  makin'  faces.  But  pretty  soon,  she  took  a 
new  holt,  and  got  to  goin'  uphill  and  down,  faster 
'n  Sam  Hill ;  then  'round  and  'round,  like  a  dawg 
after  its  tail;  then  hiccupin';  then — she  kinda 
shook  herself — and  let  out  a  last  whoppin'  beller. 

"  Macie,"  I  says,  "  do  you  have  t'  herd  with 
this  outfit  regular?  Why,  say,  all  the  wild  Injuns 
ain't  out  West." 

She  didn't  say  nothin*.  Pore  little  gal,  she  was 
watchin'  the  door.  And  Mister  Long-hair?  He 
was  wanderin'  'round,  lookin'  powerful  oneasy. 


268  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

'(He'd  V  better,  the  scale-haid!)  'Fore  long,  he 
goes  outside. 

Up  gits  a  short,  stumpy  feller  with  a  fiddle. 
All  the  rest  begun  t'  holler  and  clap.  Stumpy,  he 
bowed  and  flopped  his  ears,  and  then  he  went  at 
that  little,  ole  fiddle  of  hisn  like  he'd  snatch  it 
bald-haided.  Wai,  that  was  bully! 

And  now  it  was  Macie  they  wanted. 

"  But  he  ain't  here  yet,"  she  says. 

Long-hair  come  back  just  then.  "  I  regret  to 
say,  Miss  Sewell,"  he  begun,  "  that  Seenyer " 
(the  impressyroa)  "  cain't  run  over  t'-night.  But 
he'll  be  to  my  next  little  recital  a  month  from 


now." 


"A  month"  repeats  Macie.  Her  face  fell  a 
mile,  and  she  got  as  white  as  chalk-rock. 

"  It's  all  right,"  says  the  Perf  essor,  rubbin'  his 
hands.  "  Go  ahaid  and  sing  anyhow." 

So  she  stood  up,  tremblin'  a  little.  Long-hair 
sit  down  to  the  pyano,  and  this  was  it! 
"Oh, 
oh, 
ohf 

sweet 
sing  "bird, 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  269 

Oh, 

oh, 
oh, 

sweet 
sing  bird, 

ety 

plump         plump " 

plump 
plump 
Plump 

It  was  a  shame.  But  Macie  done  her  best. 
When  she  ended  up,  they  hollered  fer  more,  and 
Long-hair  like  to  break  hisself  in  two,  bo  win'. 

She  just  stood  there — like  she'd  been  run  to 
ground.  The  Perfessor  waved  his  hand.  "  The 
Jew's  song  from  Fowst,"  he  calls  out. 

I  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer.  I  lent  towards 
her.  "  The  Mohawk  Vale,"  I  says;  "please  sing 
The  Mohawk  Vale." 

The  crowd  giggled.  The  Perfessor,  he  started 
to  laugh,  too — but  ketched  my  eye,  and  coughed. 

Macie  turned  towards  him.  "A*  ole  friend;  I'd 
like  to,"  she  says.  And  sit  down  to  play  fer  her- 
self. 


270  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

ft  Sweet  is  the  vale  where  the  Mohawk  gently 

glides 
On  its  fair,  windin'  way  to  the  sea " 

She  helt  herself  straight,  and  tried  t'  stick  it 
out.  But  she  couldn't.  I  seen  her  shake  a  little, 
her  voice  got  husky, — and  she  hent  'way  over, 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Why,  Miss  Sewell!"  they  exclaims,  "why, 
what's  the  matter?  " 

Then,  I  gits  up.  ef  Excuse  me,"  I  says,  "  f  er 
puttin'  a  kibosh  on  you'  party.  But  I  just  want 
to  say  that  this  Bohemia-artistic-temper'ment 
fandango  stands  adjourned.  Ev'rybody  please 
vamose — 'ceptin'  the  Perfessor." 

My  goodness!  the  pow-wow!  But  they  ske- 
daddled just  the  same.  Then  I  turned  to  Long- 
hair. 

'  You'  little  game  is  over,"  I  begun.  "  You 
don't  flimflam  this  gal  another  minute.  You 
don't  bum  off  en  her  f  er  another  meal.  You  don't 
give  her  no  more  of  that  Patty  song-and-dance." 

Macie  come  at  me.  "Alec!  that's  insultin'," 
she  says. 

The  Perfessor  starts  a-gabblin*. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  271 

"  Hole  you'  bosses,"  I  says.  "  You  knowed  all 
the  time  that  the  impressyroa  wasn't  goin'  to 
show  up." 

"  Miss  Sewell,  this  is  too  much,"  says  Long- 
hair, clawin'  at  his  mane. 

"  They's  more  a-comin',"  I  says.  "  Macie,  I 
was  shore  somethin'  was  skew-gee  about  this 
mealy-mouth  here,  so  I  had  a  talk  with  that 
Seenyer  this  afternoon." 

That  give  Long-hair  a  jolt.  "Impossible!" 

he  yells ;  "  the  secretaries " 

'  They  was  about  eight,  not  to  mention  some 
office  kids,"  I  says;  "but  when  I  give  'em  some 
straight  ole  Oklahomaw,  I  went  in  O.  K." 

Long-hair  backed  off,  plumb  kaflummuxed. 

:<  The  Seenyer  said  he'd  heerd  of  this  gent,"  I 
goes  on,  "  and  wouldn't  let  him  learn  a  cow  of 
hisn  to  sing.  Friend?  any  little  favour?  come 
here?  Nixey." 

I  walks  over  to  him.  "  Acknowledge  the  corn, 
you  polecat,"  I  says. 

He  seen  the  jig  was  up.  But  he  made  his  bluff. 

"  Miss  Sewell,  this  coarse  feller " 

Macie  cut  in.  "  It's  all  so,"  she  says.  "  You've 
put  me  off  and  put  me  off.  All  my;  money/s 


272  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

gone.  I'd  banked  on  t'-night.  And  now — what 
am  I  goin'  to  do! "  She  dropped  on  to  a  chair, 
her  face  in  her  hands  again. 

"My  pore  little  gal!" 

She  sit  up.  "  No,  Alec,"  she  says,  "  I  ain't 
pore.  I've  got  you,  and  the  best  paw  a  gal  ever 
had,  and  my  home — aw,  the  dear  ole  Bar  Y! 
And,  Alec,  I'm  goin'." 

"  Goin'  where,  little  gal?  " 

She  come  over  and  stood  in  front  of  me,  and 
put  her  two  hands  on  my  arm.  "  Alec,"  she  says, 
tears  and  smiles  all  to  oncet,  "I'm  goin'  t'  start 
home  to  Oklahomaw." 

"  Start  home  to  Oklahomaw  " — them  words 
made  me  think,  of  a  suddent,  about  what  Billy  'd 
said  t'  me  at  the  train.  I  reached  into  my  inside 
coat-pocket.  "  Wait,  little  gal,"  I  says,  "  we  must 
read  this  first.  It's  that  other  letter  of  Up- 
State's." 

She  opened  it,  her  ringers  all  thumbs,  she  was 
so  £<27cited.  And  standin'  there  byside  me,  with 
the  Perfessor  a-watchin'  us  from  a  corner,  she 
begun : 

ff '  Dear  *Alec  Lloyd J  Why,  it  ain't  f  er  me, 

Alec." 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  273 

"  Go  right  on,  honey." 

"Dear  *Alec  Lloyd,  you'll  git  this  after  Ma- 
de's  gone  to  Noo  York.  'Alec,  you  'know  now 
the  trip  was  needful.  Do  you  think  you  could 
'a'  helt  her  if  she  didn't  have  Tier  try?  Mebbe. 
But  you  wouldn't  'a'  been  happy.  TAll  her  life 
she  'd  V  felt  sore  about  that  career  she  give  up, 
and  been  longin'  and  longin'. 

"And,  Made,  'cause  you'll  redd  this,  too — 
now  you  know  they  was  somethin'  else  you 
wanted  more  'n  a  singin'  chanst,  and  you  won't 
hole  it  agin  me  fer  sayin'  I  knowed  you  wouldn't 
make  no  go  of  it.  The  op'ra  game  at  its  best  is 
a  five-hunderd-to-one  shot.  *A  tumble  big  herd 
plays  it,  the  foreigners  git  the  main  prizes,  and 
the  hull  thing's  fixed  crooked  by  all  kinds  of  in- 
side pulL 

ef  'Sides,  you*  voice  'don't  match  with  crowded 
streets  and  sapped-out  air.  It  'fits  the  open 
desert.  Mebbe  so  many  won't  listen  to  it  out  here, 
but  they'll  even  things  up  by  the  way  they'll 
feel.  *And  this  letter  is  to  tell  you  how  I  thank  y* 
fer  singin'  The  Mohawk  Vale.  'Gawd  bless  y'f 
little  gal! 


274  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

"And,  rAlec,  all  kinds  of  good  luck  to  you. 
What's  in  this  letter  ain't  much,  but  it'll  be  a 
nest-aig" 

Mace  peeked  inside  the  envelope.  "Why, 
here's  a  bill!"  she  says.  "Alec!"  And  she 
drawed  it  out. 

"A  bill?"  I  turned  it  over.  "Why— why,  it's 
f er  five  hunderd  dollars !  Macie ! " 

Long-Hair  got  up  and  started  our  way, 
grinnin'. 

"  But  you  don't  git  a  cent  of  it,"  I  says, 
turnin'  on  him  quick. 

He  dodged. 

"  You'd  better  be  keerful,"  I  says.  Then,  to 
Macie,  "  Honey,  here's  another  chanst  t'  make 
a  try.  You  can  git  a  good  teacher,  this  time — • 
yas,  that's  what  I  said,  Perf essor,  a  good  teacher. 
— and  you'll  be  the  biggest  singer  in  Amuricaw 
yet "  And  I  helt  the  bill  out  to  her. 

The  only  answer  she  give  was  t'  run  to  the 
door  and  pull  at  one  of  them  round  thing-um-a- 
jigs  that  brings  a  telegraph  kid.  Next,  she  come 
back  to  a  table,  found  a  piece  of  paper  and  writ 
somethin'  on  it. 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  275 

"  Here,  Alec,"  she  says,  "  here.    Read  this." 

It  said: 

"Manager  Harvey  Eating-House,  Briggs 
City,  Oklahomaw.  Please  telephone  paw  that 
I'm  comin'  home,  and  Alec  wants  back  his  job." 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 
A   BOOM    THAT    BUSTED 

SAY  !  wouldn't  you  'a'  figgered,  after  I'd  brung 
Mace  back  t'  the  ole  Bar  Y,  and  made  her  paw 
so  happy  that  the  hull  ranch  couldn't  hole  him, 
and  he  had  t'  go  streak  up  t'  town  and  telephone 
Kansas  City  fer  a  grand  pyano  and  a  talkin'- 
machine — now  wouldn't  you  'a'  figgered  that  he'd 
'a'  treated  me  Al  when  I  come  to  ast  him  fer  the 
little  gal? 

Wai,— listen  t'  this! 

'Fore  ever  I  spoke  to  him,  I  says  to  myself, 
"  It  ain't  no  use,  when  you  want  to  start  up  a 
mule,  to  git  behind  and  push  'r  git  in  front  and 
pull.  No,  ma'am.  The  only  way  is  to  hunt  a 
pan  of  feed  'r  a  pick-axe. 

"  Now,  Sewell's  shore  one  of  them  long-eared 
critters — hardmouthed,  and  goin'  ahaid  like 
blazes  whenever  you  wanted  him  to  come  short; 
then,  again,  balkin'  till  it's  a  case  of  grand- 
father's clock,  and  you  git  to  thinkin'  that  'fore 

276 


A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  277 

he'll  move  on  he'll  plumb  drop  in  his  tracks.  So 
no  drivin'.  Coaxin'  is  good  enough  fer  you* 
friend  Cupid." 

The  first  time  I  got  a  good  chanst,  I  took  in 
my  belt,  spit  on  my  hands,  shassayed  up  to  the 
ole  man,  and  sailed  in — dead  centre. 

"  Boss,"  I  begun,  "  some  fellers  marry  'cause 
they  git  plumb  sick  and  tired  of  fastenin'  they 
suspenders  with  a  nail,  and  some  fellers 
marry " 

;'Wal?  wal?  wal?"  breaks  in  Sewell,  offish 
all  of  a  suddent,  and  them  little  eyes  of  hisn 
lookin'  like  two  burnt  holes  in  a  blanket.  "  What 
you  drivin'  at?  Git  it  out.  Time's  skurse." 

"  Puttin'  it  flat- footed,  then,"  I  says,  "  I  come 
to  speak  to  you  about  my  marryin'  Macie." 

He  throwed  up  his  haid — same  as  a  long- 
horn'll  do  when  she's  scairt — and  wrinkled  his 
forrid.  Next,  he  begun  to  jingle  his  cash  (ba-a-ad 
sign).  "So  that's  what?"  (He'd  guessed  as 
much  a'ready,  I  reckon.)!  "Wal, — I'm  a-lis- 
tenin'." 

Then  I  got  a  turnble  rusH  of  words  to  the 
mouth,  and  put  the  case  up  to  him  right  strong. 
Said  they  was  no  question  how  I  felt  about  Mace, 


278  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

and  that  this  shore  was  a  life-sentence  fer  me, 
'cause  I  wasn't  the  kind  of  a  man  to  want  to 
ever  slip  my  matreemonal  hobbles.  And  I  tacked 
on  that  the  little  gal  reckoned  she  knowed  her 
own  mind. 

"  No  gal  ever  lived  that  knowed  her  own 
mind,"  puts  in  Sewell,  snappy  as  the  dickens, 
and  actin'  powerful  oneasy. 

"  But  Mace  ain't  the  usual  brand,"  I  says. 
"  She's  got  a  good  haid — a  fine  haid.  She's  like 
you,,  Sewell." 

'You  can  keep  you'  compliments  to  home," 
says  the  boss.  Then,  after  a  little  bit,  "  S'pose 
you  been  plannin'  a'ready  where  you'd  settle." 
(This  sorta  inquirin'.) 

"  Ya-a-as,"  I  says,  "  we've  talked  some  of  that 
little  house  in  Briggs  City  which  Doc  Trow- 
bridge  lets — the  one  over  to  the  left  of  the 
tracks." 

That  second,  I  seen  a  look  come  over  his  face 
that  made  me  plumb  goose-flesh.  It  was  the 
sorta  look  that  a'  ole  bear  gives  you  when  you've 
got  him  hurt  and  into  a  corner — some  appealin', 
y'  savvy,  and  a  hull  lot  mad. 

"  Gosh! "  I  says  to  myself,  "  I  put  my  foot  in 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  279 

it  when  I  brung  up  Billy's  name.  Sewell  recol- 
lects the  time  I  stuck  in  my  lip." 

'You  plan  t'  live  in  Briggs,"  he  says.  He 
squz  his  lips  t'gether,  and  turned  his  face  towards 
the  ranch-house.  Mace  was  inside,  goin' 
back'ards  and  forwards  'twixt  the  dinin'-room 
and  the  kitchen.  She  looked  awful  cute  and 
pretty  from  where  we  was,  and  was  callin'  sassy 
things  to  the  Chinaman.  Sewell  watched  her  and 
watched  her,  and  I  recalled  later  on  (when  I 
wasn't  so  all-fired  anxious  arid  orcited),  that 
the  ole  man's  face  was  some  white,  and  he  was 
kinda  all  lent  over. 

'  Ya-a-as,"  I  continues  (some  trembley, 
though),  "that  place  of  Billy's  'd  suit." 

Two  seconds,  and  Sewell  come  round  on  me 

like  as  if  he'd  chaw  me  into  bits.  "  What  you 
goin'  to  rent  on?  "  he  ast.  "What  you  goin'  to 
live  on?" 

'  Wai,"  I  answers,  sorta  took  back,  "  I  got 
about  three  hunderd  dollars  left  of  the  money 
Up- State  give  me.  Wai,  that's  my  nest-aig. 
And  I  can  make  my  little  forty  a  month — and 
grub — any  ole  day  in  the  week." 

Sewell  drawed  his  breath  in,  deep.    (Look  out 


280  A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

when  a  man  takes  up  air  that-a-way:  Somethin's 
shore  a-comin'!)  "Forty  a  month!"  he  says. 
"  Forty  a  month!  That  just  about  keeps  you  in 
ca'tridges!  Forty  a  month! — and  you  without  a 
square  foot  of  land,  'r  a  single,  solitary  horned 
critter,  'r  more'n  a'  Injun's  soogin'  'twixt  you 
and  the  floor!  Do  y'  think  you  can  take  that  little 
baby  gal  of  mine  into  a  blank  shack  that  ain't 
got  a  stick  of  anythin'  in  it,  and  turn  her  loose 
of  a  Monday,  like  a  Chink,  to  do  the  wash? " 

"  Now,  ease  up,  boss,"  I  says.  "  I  reckon  I 
think  almost  as  much  of  Mace  as  you  do.  And 
I'm  figgerin*  to  make  her  life  just  as  happy  as 
I  can" 

Wai,  then  he  walked  up  and  down,  up  and 
down  (this  all  happened  out  by  the  calf -corral), 
and  blowed  and  bio  wed  and  bio  wed.  Said  that 
him  and  his  daughters  had  allus  made  the  Bar 
Y  ranch-house  seem  like  home  to  the  Sewell 
punchers,  and  they  was  men  in  the  outfit  just 
low-down  mean  enough  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
Said  he'd  raised  his  gal  like  a  lady — and  now 
she  was  goin*  to  be  treated  like  a  squaw. 

If  it'd  'a'  been  any  other  ole  man  but  Mace's, 
I'd  'a'  made  him  swaller  ev'ry  one  of  them  words 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  281 

'fore  ever  he  got  'em  out.  As  it  stood,  a-course, 
I  couldn't.  So  I  just  belt  my  lip  till  he  was  over 
his  holler.  (By  now,  y'  savvy,  I'd  went  through 
enough — from  sayin'  the  wrong  thing  back  when 
Paw  Sewell  'r  his  daughter  was  a-talkin' — t' 
learn  me  that  the  best  /  could  do  was  just  t'  keep 
my  blamed  mouth  shut.) 

Pretty  soon,  I  says,  "  You  spoke  of  land,  Mis- 
ter Sewell,"  I  says,  politer'n  pie,  and  as  cool  as 
if  I  had  the  hull  of  Oklahoma w  up  my  sleeve. 
(Been  a  beefsteak,  y'  savvy,  fer  him  to  git  the 
idear  he  had  me  anxious  any.)  "  Wai,  how  much 
land  do  you  figger  out  that  you'  next  son-in-law 
oughta  have?" 

He  looked  oneasy  again,  got  red  some,  and 
begun  workin'  his  nose  up  and  down  like  a  rab- 
bit. "Aw,  thunder!"  he  says,  "what  you  astin' 
that  fer?  A  man — any  man — when  he  marries, 
oughta  have  a  place  big  enough  so's  his  chickens 
can  kick  up  the  dirt  'round  his  house  without  its 
f  allin'  into  somebody  else's  yard.  Out  here,  where 
the  hull  blamed  country's  land — just  land  fer 
miles — a  man  oughta  have  a  piece,  say — wal,  as 
big  as — as  that  Andrews  chunk  of  mine."  (When 
Billy  married  Rose,  Sewell  bought  over  the  An- 


282  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

drews'  ranch,  y'  savvy.  Wanted  it  'cause  it  laid 
'twixt  hisn  and  town,  and  had  a  fine  water-hole 
fer  the  stock.  But  a  good  share  of  the  hunderd 
acres  in  it  wasn't  much  to  brag  on — just  crick- 
bottom.) 

'The  Andrews  place?"  I  says,  smooth  and 
easy.  "  Wai,  Sewell,  I'll  keep  that  in  mind.  And, 
now,  you  spoke  of  cows " 

"  Fifty  'r  so,"  puts  in  the  ole  man,  quick,  like 
as  if  he  was  'shamed  of  hisself.  (His  ranges  is 
plumb  alive  with  cattle.)  "  A  start,  Cupid, — just 
a  start." 

Wai,  a-course,  whatever  he  said  went  with  me. 
If  he'd  'a'  advised  walkin'  on  my  hands  as  far 
as  Albuquerque,  you'd  'a'  saw  me  a-startin', 
spurs  in  the  air! 

"  So  long,"  I  says  then,  and  walked  off.  When 
I  turned  round,  a  little  bit  later,  Sewell  was 
standin'  there  yet,  haid  down,  shoulders  hunched 
over,  arms  a-hangin'  loose  at  his  sides,  and  all 
his  fingers  twitchin'.  As  I  dumb  on  to  that  pinto 
bronc  of  mine  and  steered  her  outen  the  gate,  I 
couldn't  help  but  think  that,  all  of  a  suddent, 
seems  like,  the  boss  looked  a  mighty  lot  older. 

"  Maud,"  I  says,  as  I  loped  fer  town,  "  Maud, 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  283 

I'm  shore  feazed!  I  been  believin',  since  I  got 
back  from  Noo  York,  that  it  was  settled  I  was 
to  marry  Mace.  And  here,  if  I  don't  watch  out, 
that  Injun-giver '11  take  her  back.  I  was  a 
blamed  id  jit  to  give  him  any  love-talk.  The  only 
thing  he  cares  fer  is  money — money!"  Wai, 
some  men  're  like  that — and  tighter'n  a  wood- 
tick.  When  they  go  to  pay  out  a  dollar,  they 
hole  on  to  it  so  hard  they  plumb  pull  it  outen 
shape,  yas,  ma'am.  Why,  I  can  recollect  seein' 
dollars  that  looked  like  the  handle  of  a  jack- 
knife. 

But  if  I  was  brash  in  front  of  Sewell,  I  caved 
in  all  right  when  I  got  to  Briggs  City.  Say!  did 
you  ever  have  the  blues — so  bad  you  didn't  want 
to  eat,  and  you  didn't  want  to  talk,  and  you 
didn't  want  to  drink,  but  just  wanted  to  lay, 
nose  in  the  pilla,  and  think  and  think  and  think? 
Wai,  fer  three  days,  that  was  me! 

And  I  was  still  sullin'  when  Sheriff  Bergin 
come  stompin'  in  with  a  copy  of  the  Goldstone 
Tarantula.  "Here's  bum  luck!"  he  growls. 
"  A-course  Briggs  couldn't  hump  herself  none ; 
but  that  jay  town  down  the  line  has  to  go  have 
a  boom." 


284  A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

"A  boom?"  I  says,  settin'  up. 

"Reg'lar  rip-snorter  of  a  Kansas  boom. 
Some  Chicago  fellers  with  a  lot  of  cash  has 
turned  up  and  is  a-buyin'  in  all  the  sand. 
Wouldn't  it  make  y'  sick?  " 

I  reached  fer  that  paper  with  both  fists.  Yas, 
there  it  was — a  piece  about  so  long.  ff  Goldstone 
offers  the  chanst  of  a  lifetime"  it  read.  " Now 
is  when  a  little  money  II  make  a  pile.  Land  is 
cheap  t'-day,  but  later  on  it'll  bring  a  big  price" 

I  got  on  to  my  feet.  They  was  about  a  quar- 
ter of  a'  inch  of  stubble  on  my  face,  and  I  was 
as  shaky  as  a  quakin'  asp.  But  I  had  my  spunk 
up  again.  "Ain't  I  got  a  little  money,"  I  says, 
" — that  nest-aig?  Wai,  I'll  just  drop  down  to 
Goldstone,  and,  if  that  boom  is  bony  fido,  and 
growin',  I'll  git  in  on  it." 

Next  mornin',  I  went  over  to  the  deepot,  bor- 
raed  some  paper  from  the  agent,  and  writ  Macfe 
a  note.  fe Little  gal"  I  says  in  the  letter,  fc don't 
you  go  back  on  me.  I'm  prepared  to  work  my 
fingers  down  to  the  first  knuckle  fer  you,  and  it's 
only  right  you'  paw  should  want  you  took  care 
of  good." 

Then  Xumber  201   come  in  and  I  hopped 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  285 

abroad.  "  It's  land  'r  no  lady,"  I  says  to  myself, 
puttin'  my  little  post-card  photo  of  Macie  into 
my  pocket  as  the  train  pulled  out;  " — land  'r  no 
lady." 

But  when  I  hit  Goldstone,  I  plumb  got  the 
heart-disease.  (The  same  ole  long  street  was 
facin'  the  track;  the  same  scatterin'  houses  was 
standin'  to  the  north  and  south;  and  the  same 
bunch  of  dobe  shacks  was  over  towards  the 
east,  where  the  greasers  lived.  The  town  wasn't 
changed  none! 

Another  minute,  and  I  felt  more  chipper. 
West  of  town,  two  'r  three  fellers  was  walkin5" 
'round,  stakin'  out  the  mesquite.  And  nigh  the 
station,  'twixt  tnem  and  me,  was  a  brand-newy 
hip-roofed  shanty  with  a  long  black-and-white 
sign  acrosst  it.  The  sign  said  "Real  Estate." 
Wai,  that  looked  like  business! 

I  bulged  in.  They  was  a'  awful  dudey  feller 
inside,  settin'  at  a  table  and  makin'  chicken- 
tracks  on  a  big  sheet  of  blue  paper.  "  Howdy," 
I  says,  "you  must  be  one  of  them  Chicago 
gents?" 

He  jumped  up  and  shook  Hands.  "  Yas,  I  am," 
he  says ;  "  but  only  a  land-agent,  y/  savvy.  They's 


286  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

three  others  in  town  that's  got  capital.  The  one 
that  lives  over  yonder  at  the  hotel  is  a  millionaire. 
Then  they's  a  doctor  (left  a  fine  practice  to 
come),  and  a  preacher.  But  the  preacher  ain't 
just  one  of  you*  ordinary  pulpit  pounders." 

I  stooped  over  to  git  a  look  at  that  sheet  of 
Hue  paper.  It  had  lines  all  criss-cross  on  it,  same 
as  a  checker-board,  and  little,  square,  white  spots 
showin'  now  and  again. 

""Excuse  me  fer  astin',"  I  says,  "but  what's 
this?" 

'  This  is  the  new  map  of  Goldstone,"  he  says, 
"  and  drawed  two  mile  square.  Here  " — pointin" 
to  a  white  spot — "  '11  be  the  Normal  College,  and 
here" — pointin'  to  another — "the  Merchants' 
.Exchange.  Then,  a-course,  the  Pavilion  fer  In- 
dus'tral  Inhibitions " 

"  Pardner,"  I  broke  in,  "  if  Goldstone  was  in 
the  middle  'r  east  part  of  Oklahomaw,  where 
crops  is  allus  fine,  this  boom  wouldn't  surprise 
me  a  little  bit.  But  out  this  way,  where  they's 
only  a  show  fer  cattle,  I  cain't  just  understand 
it.  Now,  they  must  be  some  reason." 

The  real  estate  agent,  he  smiled  awful  sly] 
like,  and  wunk.  "  Mebbe,"  he  says. 


A  lee  Lloyd,.  Cowpuncher  287 

Later  on,  I  seen  the  gent  that  was  stoppin'  at 
the  hotel.  He  was  tonier'n  the  other.  Wore 
one  of  them  knee  coats  that's  got  a  wedge  outen 
it,  right  in  front,  and  two  buttons  fastened  in 
the  small  of  the  back.  He  was  walkin'  up  and 
down  the  porch  and  smokin*  a  seegar.  Rich? 
Wai,  I  guess !  Had  the  finest  room  in  the  house, 
and  et  three  six-bit  meals  a  day !  About  fifty,  he 
was,  and  kinda  porky;  not  a  tub,  y*  savvy,  but 
plenty  fat. 

That  same  day,  a  new  Tarantula  come  out. 
In  it  was  a  piece  haided  "More  Capital  Fer 
Goldstone."  It  went  on  like  this :  fe  Our  City  has 
lately  acquired  four  new  citizens  whose  confi- 
dence and  belief  in  her  future  'd  put  some  of 
the  old  hangers-on  and  whiners  to  the  blush  if 
they  faces  wasn't  made  of  brass,  and  didn't  know 
how  to  blush.  Wake  up"  goes  on  the  Tarantula, 
<e  wake  up,  Goldstone,  and  shake  you' self.  And 
gents,  here's  a  hearty  welcome!  Give  us  you' 
paw! " 

,  Goldstone  was  woke  up,  all  right,  all  right. 
She  was  as  lively  and  &rcited  as  a  chicken  with 
its  haid  cut  off.  That  real-estate  feller  'd  bought 
up  two  big  tracts  just  north  of  town,  gittin* 


288  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

'em  cheap  a-course;  awful  cheap,  in  fact, 
'cause  no  one  'd  smelt  a  boom  when  he 
first  showed  up.  k(Wal,  first  come,  first  served.), 
Porky  'd  bought,  too,  and  owned  some  lots 
'twixt  them  tracts  and  the  post-office.  To  the 
east,  right  where  the  nicest  houses  is,  the  parson 
was  plannin'  to  import  his  fambly.  More'n  that, 
them  four  gun-shy  gents  stood  ready  to  buy 
all  the  time.  And  Goldstone  fellers  that  would 
'a*  swapped  they  lots  f  er  a  yalla  dawg,  and  then 
shot  the  dawg,  was  holdin'  out  fer  fifty  plunks. 

Wai,  I  had  that  three  hunderd.  But  I  helt 
back.  What  I  wanted  to  know  was  the  why  be- 
hind the  boom. 

I  just  kinda  happened  past  that  real-estate 
corn-crib.  The  land-agent  was  to  home,  and 
I  ast  him  to  come  over  and  have  one  with  me. 
He  said  O.  K.,  that  suited  him.  So  we  greased 
our  hollers  a  few  times.  And,  when  he  was  f eelin' 
so  good  that  he  could  make  out  to  talk,  I  drawed 
from  him  that  Goldstone  was  likely  to  stand 
'way  up  yonder  at  the  haid  of  her  class  account 
of  "natu'al  developments." 

"Natu'al  developments,"  I  says.  "Wai, 
pardner,  when  it  comes  to  them  big,  dictionary 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  289 

words,  I  shore  am  a  slouch.  And  you  got  me  all 
twisted  up  in  my  picket-rope." 

But  I  had  to  spend  another  dollar  'fore  he'd 
talk  some  more.  Then  he  begun,  tumble  confi- 
dential :  "  I  been  sayin'  nothin*  and  sawin'  wood, 
Lloyd.  I  ain't  let  no  man  git  information  outen 
me.  But  I  like  you,  Lloyd,  and,  say!  I'm  a-goin' 
to  tell  you.  Natu'al  developments  is  coal  and  oil 
and  gas" 

Same  as  the  Tusla  country!  Wai,  I  was  plumb 
crazy.  "  Blamed  if  it  ain't  likely"  I  says  to  my- 
self. "  Wai,  that  settles  things  f er  me" 

I  got  shet  of  that  real-estate  feller  quick  as 
I  could  (didn't  want  him  to  remember  that  he'd 
talked  in  his  sleep),  and  hunted  up  the  post- 
master. The  postmaster  was  one  of  the  china- 
eyed,  corn-silk  Swedes,  and  he  owned  quite  a  bit 
of  Goldstone.  I  tole  him  I  wanted  to  buy  a 
couple  of  lots  'cause  I  was  goin'  to  be  married, 
and  figgered  to  build.  (That  wasn't  no  lie, 
neither.)  Said  I  didn't  want  to  live  in  the  part 
of  town  where  the  greasers  was  fer  the  reason 
that  I'd  rather  settle  down  in  a  Sioux  Camp  in 
August  any  day  than  amongst  a  crowd  of  blamed 
cholos. 


290  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

The  postmaster  wasn't  anxious  to  sell.  Said 
he  didn't  have  more'n  a  block  left,  and  he  wanted 
a  big  price  f er  that.  "  'Cause  this  boom  is  solid'*  • 
— he  kinda  half  whispered  it.  "  How  do  I  know? 
Wai,  I  pumped  one  of  them  suspender-cityzens 
this  morninY' 

That  showed  me  I'd  got  to  hump  myself.  If 
that  real-estate  feller  blabbed  any  more,  I 
wouldn't  be  able  to  buy.  The  station-agent 
owned  some  lots.  I  hiked  fer  the  deepot. 

When  I  looked  into  the  ticket-office  through 
the  little  winda,  I  seen  that  agent — one  hand 
on  the  tick-machine,  other  holdin'  his  haid — with 
his  mouth  wide  open,  like  a  hungry  wall-eye. 

"  Lloyd,"  he  says,  pantin'  hard,  "  I  ain't  got 
no  right  to  tell,  but  I  can't  hole  it  in.  Them  Chi- 
cago fellers,  Lloyd,  are  a  Standard  Oil  bunch. 
Look  a-here ! "  And  he  pushed  out  a  telegram. 

I  wouldn't  'a'  believed  it  if  I  hadn't  saw  it 
writ  down  in  black  and  white.  But  there  it  was, 
haided  Chicago,  addressed  to  Porky,  and  as  plain 
as  day:  "Buy  up  all  that's  possible.  Price  no 
object.  Rockafeller." 

Say!  I  come  nigh  lettin'  out  a  yell.  Then, 
knowin'  they  was  no  use  to  ast  the  agent  to  sell, 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  291 

I  split  f  er  the  liv'ry-stable.  And  when  I  got  back 
into  town  late  that  night,  I'd  been  down  to  a 
ranch  below  Goldstone  and  handed  over  my  nest- 
aig  fer  a  quarter-section  just  south  of  town. 

Next  mornin',  they  was  a  nice  pile  of  stakes 
throwed  out  on  to  that  sand  patch  of  mine,  all 
them  stakes  white  on  the  one  end  and  sharp  on 
the  other.  And  they  was  a  big  sign  onloaded,  too. 
[Yas,  ma'am.  It  said,  "  The  Lloyd  Addition." 

And  that  same  noon,  Number  201  brung  me  a 
letter  from  little  Macie ! 

I  didn't  cut  up  my  quarter  into  lots  straight 
off.  Made  up  my  mind  it'd  be  best  to  see  that 
real-estate  feller  first,  ast  his  advice,  and  see  if 
he'd  handle  the  property.  So  I  made  fer  his 
office  in  a  turrible  sweat. 

Heerd  awful  loud  talkin'  as  I  come  nigh,  and 
seen  they  was  a  big  crowd  'round  the  door.  And 
here  was  Porky  and  the  parson,  just  havin'  it 
— up  and  down! 

:<  The  idear !  "  the  parson  was  sayin',  "  — the 
idear  of  you'  thinkin'  you  can  go  stick  a  pavilion 
where  licker'll  be  sold  right  next  to  the  Cathe- 
dral! "  (He  was  madder  'n  all  git  out!) 

Porky  shrug  his  shoulders.  " My  dear  sir'9 


292  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

he  says,  "  I  got  to  use  my  own  land  in  my  own 
way." 

"Aw!"  answers  the  parson,  solemn,  " — aw! 
my  friend,  give  you'  heart  a  housecleanin'.  Think 
not  so  muchly  about  worldly  possessions,  but 
seecure  a  lot  in  the  Xew  Jerusalem ! " 

Then  Porky  flew  up.  Said  the  parson  'd  in- 
sulted him.  "  And,"  he  almost  yelled,  "  this  is 
how  it  stands.  Either  you  got  to  buy  the  block 
where  the  pavilion's  goin'  to  be,  'r  I'll  buy  the 
Cathedral  property." 

"  I  ain't  got  you'  means  at  my  command," 
says  the  parson. 

"  Never  mind.  I'll  take  the  church  lots.  Xame 
you'  figger." 

"  Three  thousand." 

Porky  pulled  out  his  check-book  and  begun  to 
scribble  with  one  of  them  squirt-gun  pens.  "  The 
matter  is  settled,"  he  says. 

Say!  the  feller  who'd  sole  that  property  to 
the  parson  f er  a  hunderd — we  had  to  prop  him 
up! 

Just  afterwards,  I  had  my  chin  with  the  real- 
estate  dude,  and  I  tell  you  it  made  me  pretty 
blue.  "  Sorry,  Lloyd,"  he  says ;  "  you  know  I 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  293 

never  tole  you  to  buy  south  of  town.  And  I  don't 
keer  to  bother  with  you'  Addition.  'Cause  Gold- 
stone  is  goin'  to  grow  to  the  north  and  east." 

Porky  was  there,  and  he  said  the  very  same 
thing.  And  a  few  minutes  later  on,  when  the 
doc  come  in,  I  couldn't  git  him  to  even  consider 
lookin'  over  my  buy.  But  f er  a  lot  on  the  north 
side,  belongin'  to  the  parson,  he  put  down  the 
good,  hard  coin. 

North  and  east  was  the  hull  talk  now,  and  them 
Goldstone  fellers  who'd  sole  out  cheap  in  that 
end  of  town  felt  some  pale.  But  the  Chicago 
gents  was  as  pert  as  prairie-dawgs,  and  doin'  a 
thunderin'  lot  of  buyin'.  Now,  the  doc  owned 
sev'ral  lots  east  of  Porky's  tract.  "New  drug- 
store here,"  he  says,  "and  a  fine  town  hall  over 
it.  I'll  put  ten  thousand  into  the  buildin'."  And 
the  parson  bought  next  to  the  site  f  er  the  Normal 
College.  "The  city,"  he  says,  "'11  want  a  spot 
fer  its  High  School." 

All  the  time  this  was  goin'  on,  I  was  livin'  on 
nothin',  you  might  say,  and  not  even  spendin' 
a  cent  fer  a  shave.  My  haid  had  a  crop  of  hay 
on  it  that  would  'a'  filled  a  pilla;  I  had  a  Santy 
Claus  beard,  and  if  I  couldn't  afford  to  grub  at 


294  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

the  hotel,  I  wasn't  mean  enough  to  use  they 
soap.  So,  far  as  looks  goes,  I  was  some  changed. 

Then — the  Tarantula  showed  up  with  the  hull 
story  about  coal  and  oil  and  gas!  Say!  the  cat 
was  outen  the  bag.  And  Goldstone  come  nigh 
havin'  a  fit  and  fallin'  in.  Here  it'd  been  over 
a  gold-mine,  and  didn't  know  it!  And  here  it'd 
gone  and  sole  itself  out  to  a  passel  of  strange 
ducks ! 

"  Feller  cityzens"  says  the  paper,  (f  this  beau- 
tiful city  of  yourn  is  destined  to  rival  South  Me- 
Alester  and  Colgate" 

That  was  on  a  Thursday,  if  I  recollect  right. 
Wai,  say!  fer  the  next  two  days,  more  things 
happened  in  that  there  town  than'd  ever  hap- 
pened in  the  hull  county  afore.  Ev'rybody  that 
could  rake,  scrape,  beg  'r  borra  was  a-doin'  it 
— so's  they  could  buy.  Friday,  the  postmaster 
got  a  big  block  from  the  real-estate  gent;  same 
day,  kinda  as  a  favour,  the  doc  sold  the  ticket- 
agent  two  'r  three  lots.  I  felt  blamed  sore  'cause  I 
didn't  have  no  money  to  git  in  on  some  good  deals. 
But  I  hung  on  to  the  "Lloyd  Addition"— I 
wouldn't  let  that  git  outen  my  hands.  Aw,  I 
ain't  a-goin'  to  lie — I  had  the  boom- fever  bad 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  295 

as  anybody.  Fact  is,  I  had  it  worse.  And  who 
wouldn't — when  gettin'  that  little  gal  depended 
on  it? 

Saturday,  Goldstone  went  plumb  crazy.  They 
was  buyin'  and  sellin'  back'ards  and  for'ards, 
this  way  and  that  way,  in  circles  and  eater-cor- 
ners. From  sun-up  on,  that  real-estate  shanty  had 
half  a  dozen  fellers  in  it  all  the  time;  more  was 
over  to  the  hotel,  dickerin*  with  Porky;  and  a 
lot  of  others  trailed  up  the  parson  and  the  doc. 
Nobody  et  'cause  they  was  too  blamed  excited. 
Nobody  drunk  'cause  they  wouldn't  spare  the 
cash.  The  sun  went  down,  and  they  kept  on 
a-buyin'.  And  at  midnight,  the  town  went  to 
bed — rich! 

The  day  afterwards  was  Sunday.  And  I  hope 
I  may  die  if  I  ever  fergit  that  Sunday! 

When  the  sun  come  up,  as  a  story-book'd 
put  it,  Goldstone  lay  as  calm  and  peaceful  as  a 
babe,  'cept  where  some  poor  devil  of  a  cow- 
punch  was  gittin'  along  towards  his  bunk  when 
he  oughta  been  comin'  outen  it.  But  all  else  was 
O.  K.  Weather  fine,  ev'rybody  well,  thank  y', 
and  land  so  high  it's  a  wonder  the  temper'ture 
wasn't  gittin'  low. 


296  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

But  ain't  it  funny  how  quick  things  can 
change? 

First  off,  some  of  us  boys  went  over  to  that 
real-estate  hogan — and  found  the  door  open  and 
the  place  stripped.  Yas,  ma'am;  duds  gone,  pic- 
tures gone.  Only  the  bench  and  the  table  left. 

"  What  struck  him?  "  ast  the  postmaster,  who 
was  comin'  by. 

"  I  guess,"  says  a  feller,  careless,  " — I  guess 
he's  moved  into  a  better  office,  mebbe." 

"  I  reckon,"  agrees  the  postmaster.  Then,  his 
voice  gittin'  holler,  like,  "  But  ain't  that  the  map 
of  Goldstone,  with  a  rip  in  it?  " 

It  was — tore  clean  in  two! 

We  wasn't  anxious  any.  Just  the  same,  we 
drifted  over  to  the  hotel.  When  we  got  to  the 
door,  we  met  the  clerk  comin'  out.  "  Where's 
you'  millionaire  friend  this  mornin'?"  we  ast 
him. 

"  Started  f er  Chicago  last  night." 

"What— what's  that?" 

"  Gone  to  raise  more  capital,  I  guess,"  says 
the  clerk.  "  'Cause  he  didn't  settle — is  comin' 
back  right  off." 

Without  nobody  sayin'  nothin'  more,  we  all 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  297 

made  up  the  street  to  the  doctor's,  the  crowd 
growin'  as  we  went  along.  Even  after  bein' 
knocked  plumb  flat  with  a  sledge-hammer,  we 
didn't  know  yet  what'd  hit  us.  But  they  was  an- 
other whopper  a-comin' — the  doc  wasn't  to  be 
found. 

"  I  think,"  says  the  postmaster,  swallerin'  hard, 
"that  if  we  ast  the  parson — : — " 

Up  pipes  a  kid.  "  The  parson  wasn't  to  Sun- 
day school  this  mornin'." 

Fer  a  spell,  we  all  just  looked  at  each  other. 
Then,  the  procession  formed  and  moved  east — 
towards  the  parson's. 

A  square  table  was  inside.  On  it  was  a  lot  of 
bottles  and  glasses  and  a  pack  of  cards — nothin' 
more. 

Ole  sin-killer,  too! 

I  spoke  up :  "  They's  gone,  boys, — but  what 
about  they  land?  " 

"Wai,"  answers  one  feller,  "I  don't  think 
the  doc  had  none.  'Cause  I  bought  the  Mer- 
chants' l£«rchange  site  off  en  him  yesterday." 

"  And  I  bought  the  Normal  School  block  offen 
the  parson,"  says  Number  Two. 

"And  what  I  got  from  the  real-estate  feller 


298  A  lee  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

last  night,"  adds  the  hotel  clerk,  "  must  'a'  come 
nigh  to  cleanin'  him  out." 

Another  spell  of  quiet.  Then 

"I  wonder,"  remarks  the  station-agent,  "if 
that  Rockafeller  telegram  was  gewwcrint." 

The  postmaster  throwed  up  his  hands.  "  We're 
it!  "  he  says.  "  We  sole  our  sand  fer  a  song,  and 
we  bought  it  back  at  a  steep  figger." 

"  With  all  that  money,"  adds  the  hotel  clerk, 
"  they  must  'a'  had  to  walk  bow-laigged." 

"My  friends,"  says  the  station-agent,  "the 
drinks  is  on  us ! " 

And  me?  Wai,  I  wandered  'round  fer  a  while 
— like  I  was  plumb  loco.  When  I  landed  up  at 
last,  I  seen  somethin'  white  in  front  of  me.  It 
was  a  sign,  and  it  said,  "  The  Lloyd  Addition." 

I  sit  down  on  my  little  pile  of  stakes,  and 
pulled  out  the  last  letter  I'd  got  from  Macie. 

'" 'Dear  *Alec"  it  begun,,  "I'm  so  glad  you  got 
you'  land " 

I  didn't  read  no  further.  I  looked  off  acrosst 
the  mesquite  in  the  Erection  of  Briggs  City.' 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  299 

"  The  land  ain't  no  good,"  I  says.  "  And  all  my 
money's  gone."  And  I  laid  my  haid  down  on  my 
arms. 

Just  then,  outen  a  bunch  of  grass  not  far  off, 
I  heerd  the  spunky  little  song  of  a  lark ! 

I  riz  up. 

"  Anyhow,"  I  says,  "  I'm  goin'  home.  Mebbe 
I  look  like  a  bum;  but  I'm  goin'  back  where  I 
got  some  friends!  I'm  goin'  back  where  they; 
call  me  Cupid ! " 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 
'AND   A   BOOM   AT   BRIGGS 

I  GOT  back  all  right.  It  takes  two  dollars  and 
six-bits  to  git  from  Goldstone  to  Briggs  City 
on  the  Local.  But  if  you  happen  to  have  a  little 
flat  bottle  in  you'  back  pocket,  you  ride  in  the 
freight  caboose  fer  nothin'.  I  had  a  flat  bottle 

swapped  "  The  Lloyd  Addition  "  fer  it. 

When  I  hit  ole  Briggs  City,  she  looked  all 
right  t'  me,  I  can  tell  y'.  And  so  did  the  boys. 
And  by  noon  I  was  plumb  wored  out,  I'd  gassed 
so  much. 

Wai,  I  went  over  and  sit  down  on  the  edge  of 
Silverstein's  porch  to  rest  my  face  and  hands. 
Pretty  soon,  I  heerd  a  hoss  a-comin'  up  the  street 
— clickety,  clickety,  clickety,  click.  It  stopped  at 
the  post-office,  right  next  me.  I  looked  up — and 
here  was  Macie ! 

Say!  I  felt  turrible,  'cause  I  hadn't  slicked  up 
any  yet.  But  she  didn't  seem  to  notice.  She 

300 


Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  301 

knowed  they  was  somethin'  gone  wrong  though, 
'fore  ever  I  said  a  word.  She  just  helt  out  one 
soft  little  hand.  "  Never  you  mind,  Alec,"  she 
says ;  "  never  you  mind." 

My  little  gal! 

"  It  means  punchin'  cows  f er  four  years  at 
forty  per,  Macie,"  I  says  to  her. 

"  I'll  wait  fer  you,  Alec,"  she  answers. 

She'd  gone,  and  I  was  turnin'  back  towards 
Silverstein's,  when — I'm  a  son-of-a-gun  if  I 
didn't  see,  a-comin'  acrosst  from  the  deepot,  one 
of  them  land-sharks!  It  was  Porky,  with  that 
wedge-coat  of  hisn,  and  a  seegar  as  big  as  a 
corn-cob ! 

Say!  I  duv  under  the  porch  so  quick  that  I 
clean  scairt  the  life  outen  six  razorbacks  and 
seventeen  hens  that  was  diggin'  'round  under  it. 
And  when  I  come  out  where  the  back  door  is,  I 
skun  fer  Hairoil  Johnson's  shack  to  borra  a  dif - 
f 'rent  suit  of  clothes  offen  the  parson.  Next,  I 
had  my  Santy  Claus  mowed  at  the  barber-shop. 

But,  when  I  looked  in  the  glass,  I  wasn't  sat- 
isfied, 'cause  I  wasn't  changed  enough.  "  What'll 
I  do?  "  I  ast  the  barber. 

"  Wash,"  he  says. 


302  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Wai,  I'll  be  dog-goned! — the  disguise  was 
complete! 

Just  then,  in  come  Hank  Shackleton. 
"Hank,"  I  says,  "what  do  y'  think?— that  fat 
Chicago  millionaire  I  was  a-tellin'  you  of  is 
here!" 

'  You  don't  say  so ! "  he  answers,  beginnin' 
to  grin.  "  That  shore  is  luck!  " 

"  How  so?  "  ast  the  barber. 

;c  Why,"  I  says,  "  just  think  what  we  can  do 
to  him!" 

Hank  just  lent  back  and  haw-hawed  like  He'd 
bust  his  buttons  off.  "Aw,  don't  make  me 
laugh,"  he  says ;  "  my  lip's  cracked !  " 

They  ain't  no  use  talkin' — we  fixed  up  a  prop- 
osition that  was  a  daisy. 

"  And  it'll  work  like  yeast,"  says  Shackleton. 
"  A-course,  whatever  I  make  outen  it,  Cupid,  you 
git  a  draw-down  on — yas,  you  do." 

"  Nobody  from  Goldstone'll  speak  up  and 
spoil  the  fun,  neither,"  I  says.  "  Not  by  a  jug- 
ful! That  passel  of  yaps  down  there  is  jealous 
of  Briggs,  and  'd  just  like  to  see  her  done. 
What's  more,  they  got  a  heap  of  little,  mean 
pride,  and  'd  never  own  up  they  been  sold." 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  303 

It  was  shore  funny,  but  from  that  very  min- 
ute, and  all  by  itself  kinda,  Briggs  City  begun 
to  boom !  Billy  Trowbridge  put  a  barb- wire  fence 
'round  a  couple  of  vacant  lots  next  his  house. 
Bergin  dug  a  big  hole  behind  that  ole  vacant 
shack  of  hisn,  and  buried  about  a  ton  of  tin  cans. 
Hairoil  turned  some  shoats  into  a  rock  patch  he 
owned  and  cleaned  out  the  rattlesnakes.  And  all 
over  town,  sand  got  five  times  as  high  as  it'd 
ever  been  afore. 

So  when  my  dudey  friend,  the  real-estate  fel- 
ler, struck  our  flourishin'  city,  and  hired  a'  empty 
shanty  fer  his  office,  he  didn't  find  no  one  anx- 
ious to  sell  him  a  slice  of  land.  "Say!  prop- 
erty's up  here,"  he  remarked,  whilst  he  put  down 
the  stiff  price  that  Bill  Rawson  'cl  ast  fer  a  lot. 
He  seemed  sorta  bothered  in  his  mind.  (But  he 
had  to  have  land — to  start  his  game  on.) 

"  And  climbin* "  says  Bill,  pocketin'  the  spon- 
dulix.  (Later  on,  Bill  says  to  me,  "I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  do  another  lick  of  hard  work  this 
year!") 

Same  day,  here  was  Sam  Barnes,  walkin*  up 
and  down  on  that  acre  of  hisn  and  holdin*  to  a 
forked  stick.  Wouldn't  tell  Porky  why,  though 


304  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

he  hinted  that  whenever  a  forked  stick  dipped 
three  times,  it  meant  somethin'  more  'n  water. 
"  But  I  ain't  got  the  cash  to  do  no  investigatin'," 
says  Sam,  sad-like. 

Porky  got  tumble  interred.  "  Say,"  he  says 
t'  Shackleton,  "what  you  think  of  that  land 
of  Barnes's?" 

"Wai,"  answers  Hank,  "I'll  teU  y':  Oncet 
I  seen  another  strip  that  looked  just  like  hisn 
on  top.  And  it  was  rich  in  gold.  It  was  so  blamed 
rich  in  the  colour  that  when  the  feller  who  owned 
it  (he  was  as  lazy  as  a  government  mule) — when 
that  feller  wanted  more  t'bacca,  'r  some  spuds, 
'r  a  piece  of  pig,  why,  he'd  just  go  out  into  the 
yard  and  roll.  Then  he'd  hike  to  town,  and  when 
he'd  get  into  the  bank,  he'd  shake  hisself — good 
— pick  up  what  fell  to  the  floor,  git  it  weighed, 
and  the  payin'-teller  would  hand  him  out  what 
was  comin'  t'  him." 

Porky  peeled  his  eyes.  (It  was  plain  he  didn't 
swaller  it  all.)  But,  after  talkin'  with  that  real- 
estate  feller,  he  hunted  up  Sam  and  bought 
ev'ry  square  inch  he  had.  "  'Cause  it's  dollars 
to  doughnuts,"  he  says,  "that  Briggs  City'll 
grow  this  way." 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  305 

"  Wai,  I  don't  know,"  says  Sam.  "  Bergin  is 
powerful  strong  in  pollytics,  and  he  figgers  to 
git  the  Court  House  erected  on  the  other  side 
of  town — where  his  wife's  got  some  land." 

The  new  parson  and  the  doc  showed  up  that 
same  afternoon.  And  I  reckon  they  liked  that 
Court  House  idear,  'cause  they  took  the  north 
half  of  the  Starvation  Gap  property  straight 
off. 

"The  City  Park,"  they  says,  "should  allus 
be  next  the  public  buildin's." 

"The  City  Park,"  says  Buckshot  Millikin, 
"  will  likely  be  further  north,  right  agin  the 
University.  I  know — fer  the  reason  that  they 
was  a  meetin'  of  the  University  directors  last 
night.  Then,  the  Farmers'  and  Merchants'  Bank 
is  goin'  to  be  located  facin'  the  Park,  and  so  is 
the  Grand  Op'ra  House." 

Porky  gave  Buckshot  a'  awful  sharp  look.  But 
Buckshot's  a*  Injun  when  it  comes  to  actin'  in- 
nocenter'n  a  kitten.  So  then  the  millionaire  gent 
looked  tickled  ('cause,  just  think! — if  we  was 
#rcited  a'ready  about  a  boom,  what  a  pile  of 
trouble  it'd  save  him  and  his  pardners!)  Wai,  he 
waddled  off  and  hunted  'em  up.  And  that  night 


306  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpunctier 

they  purchased  'most  all  of  them  north  lots — 
payin'  good. 

It  was  the  next  mornin'  that  they  got  holt  of 
ole  man  Sewell  and  bought  the  Andrews  place. 
Sewell  wasn't  on — he  hadn't  been  into  town  since 
I  come  from  Goldstone.  But  the  real-estate  gent 
was  used  to  puttin'  up  a  good  figger  by  now,  and 
the  boss  made  a  fair  haul. 

Right  off,  the  Andrews  chunk  was  laid  out 
in  fifty- foot  lots.  It  was  just  rows  and  rows  of 
white  stakes,  and  when  the  West-bound  was 
stopped  at  the  deepot  fer  grub,  I  seen  Bill  Raw- 
son  pointin'  them  stakes  out  to  two  poor  ole 
white-haired  women.  "  Ladies,"  he  says,  "  that's 
the  battlefield  where  Crook  fit  the  Kiowas. 
Ev'ry  stake's  a  stiff." 

As  the  train  pulled  out,  she  was  tipped  all  to 
one  side  kinda,  and  runnin'  on  her  off  wheels, 
'cause  the  pass'ngers  was  herded  along  the  west 
side  of  the  cars,  lookin'  at  that  big  grave- 
yard. 

tf 

\Vhen  Hank's  next  Eye-Opener  come  out,  one 
hull  side  of  it  was  covered  with  a  map  of  Briggs 
City — drawed  three  mile  square,  so's  to  take 
in  what  Mrs.  Bergin  had  left.  Under  the  map 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  307 

it  said,  rf  The  left-hand  cross  marks  the  position 
of  the  West  Oklahomaw  Observatory,,  which  is 
to  be  built  on  top  of  Rogers'*  Butte,  and  the  cross 
in  the  Andrews  Addition  marks  the  spot  where 
the  great  Sanatorium'!!  stand."  (Say!  it  was 
gittin'  to  be  a  cold  day  in  Briggs  when  somebody 
didn't  start  a  grand,  new  institootion!)1  ce  Why," 
goes  on  Shackleton,  in  that  piece  of  hisn, 
ffbreathin'  that  fine  crick-bottom  air,  and  on  a 
plain  diet — say,  of  bread  and  clabbered  milk,  a 
sick  person  oughta  git  cured  up  easy,  and  a 
healthy  person  oughta  live  more'n  a  hunderd 
years."  (Wai,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  if  I  had  to 
eat  clabbered  milk  a  hunderd  years,  I'd  ruther 
die!) 

Next  thing,  two  'r  three  of  the  boys  got  into 
a  reg'lar  jawin'-match  over  some  property. 
Chub  Flannagan  wanted  to  start  a  new  paper 
called  the  Rip-Saw.  Shackleton,  a-course,  didn't 
want  he  should.  Right  in  front  of  that  real- 
estate  feller's,  Chub  drawed  a  gun  on  Hank. 
And  Monkey  Mike  had  to  interfere  'twixt  them. 

"  I  got  a  right  to  do  what  I  please  on  my  own 
land,"  yells  Chub. 

"Wai,    I'U    buy    you*    blamed    lots,"    says 


308  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Shackleton,  "  but  I  don't  stand  f er  compytition. 
Here,  agent,  what's  Chub's  block  worth?" 

The  dude  reckoned  it  was  worth  five  hunderd. 
And  Shackleton  dug  down  like  a  man! 

The  rest  of  us  done  a  tumble  lot  of  buyin' 
and  sellin'  right  after  that — one  to  the  other. 
The  sheriff  sold  to  Sam  Barnes  (fer  a  chaw  of 
t'bacca) ;  Bill  Rawson,  he  sold  to  me  (on  tick)  ; 
Hairoil  Johnson  to  Dutchy,  and  so  forth.  'R, 
it'd  be  like  this:  "  Bet  you  a  lot  I  can  jump  the 
furth'est."  "  Bet  you  cain't."  Then  real  estate  'd 
change  hands,  and  the  Tarantula  'd  talk  about 
"  a  lively  market." 

A-course,  the  dude  and  Porky,  and  the  doc 
and  the  new  parson  was  doin'  some  buyin',  too. 
'Fore  long,  they  owned  all  Bergin  had,  and 
Shackleton's,  and  Chub's,  and  Rawson's,  and 
Johnson's,  and  mine.  And  they  picked  out  a 
place  fer  the  Deef,  Dumb,  and  Blind  Asylum; 
and  named  ole  man  Sewell  fer  President  of  the 
Briggs  City  Pott'ry  works. 

Pretty  soon,  havin'  all  the  land  they  wanted, 
they  begun,  steady  by  jerks,  to  sell  each  other, 
notice  of  them  sales  appearin'  in  the  Eye-Opener 
at  two-bits  apiece.  Next,  they  got  to  sellin' 


"  Fll  buy  you  blamed  lots,  but  I  don't  stand  fer  compytition 


A  lee  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  309 

faster.  Then,  it  was  dawg  eat  dawg.  Lickin* 
things  into  a'  £<rcitin'  pass,  them  lots  of  theirn 
flew  back'ards  and  f  or'ards  till  the  air  was  plumb 
full  of  sand.  When  the  sun  went  down  that 
never-to-be-f ergot  evenin'  (as  the  speaker  allus 
says  at  a  political  pow-wow) ,  ole  Briggs  City  was 
the  colour  of  mesquite.  But  the  pockets  of  the 
punchers  was  so  chuck  full  that,  as  the  hours 
drug  by,  our  growin'  city  got  redder  'n  a  section- 
house,  'cause  the  boys  was  busy  paintin'  it.  (But 
count  me  out — I  had  my  draw-down,  and  I  was 
a-hangin'  on  to  it.)  Whilst  over  at  the  real- 
estate  shack,  them  gun-shy  gents  was  havin'  a 
quiet,  little  business  talk,  gittin'  ready  fer  they: 
onloadin'  campaign  next  day. 

About  ten  o'clock,  I  stopped  by  they  shebang 
and  knocked.  When  the  door  was  opened,  here 
they  all  sit,  makin'  out  more  deeds  'n  you  could 
shake  a  stick  at.  I  didn't  go  in.  I  figgered  I'd 
be  gittin'  married  soon;  and  no  feller  wants  his 
face  spotted  up  like  a  Sioux  chief's  on  his  wed- 
din'  day. 

"  Gents,"  I  says,  "  the  boys  sent  me  over  to 
thank  you  all  fer  purchasin'  property  hereabouts 
in  such  a  blamed  gen'rous  way.  And  it's  shore  too 


310  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

bad  that  they  feel  they  cain't  invest.  But  they 
plan  to  wait  a  year,  and  buy  in  what  you  got 
fer  taxes." 

Fer  as  long  as  you  could  count  ten,  not  a'  one 
of  'em  said  a  word.  Then  the  doc  stood  up. 
"  Who  in  thunder  are  you?  "  he  ast,  voice  like  a 
frog. 

"Why,"  I  answers,  "don't  you  recollect  me? 
I'm  Cupid  here;  but,  down  at  Goldstone,  I  was 
the  owner  of  the  Lloyd  Addition." 

They  jumped  like  they'd  been  stuck  with  a 
pin.  "  The  Lloyd  Addition!  "  they  kinda  hisses. 

'*  Yas,"  I  goes  on.  "  So  I  reckon  you  realise 
that  it  wouldn't  be  no  use  fer  Mister  Real-Estate 
Agent,  here,  to  git  three-sheets-in-the-wind,  and 
then  let  out  his  grand  natu'al  development  se- 
cret; 'r  fer  our  millionaire  friend  to  go  send  his- 
self  a  telegram  from  Rockafeller.  Gent's  you* 
little  Briggs  City  boom  is  busted." 

Say!  next  minute  the  hull  quartette  of  'em 
was  a-swearin'  to  oncet,  so's  it  sounded  like  a 
tune — nigger  cKords  and  all. 

Next,  Porky  begun  a  solo.  Said  if  they  hadn't 
all  been  plumb  crazy,  they'd  'a'  knowed  they  was 
a  screw  loose  in  Briggs.  And  now  here  they  was 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  311 

stripped  cleaner'n  a  whistle  by  a  set  of  ornery  - 
cow-punchers— 

I  cut  him  short.  "We  know  how  to  cure  a 
dawg  of  suckin'  aigs,"  I  says.  "  We  give  him  all 
he  wants  of  'em — red  hot.  Wai,  you  gents  had 
the  boom  disease,  and  you  had  it  bad.  But  I 
reckon  now  you've  got  just  about  all  the  land 
you  can  hole." 

They  nodded  they  haids.  It  was  a  show-down, 
and  no  mistake,  and  they  was  plumb  offen  they 
high  boss.  Blamed  if  I  didn't  come  nigh  feelin' 
sorry  f er  'em !  But  I  goes  on,  "I'm  feard  you- 
all're  just  a  little  bit  ongratef ul  to  me — cowsider- 
in'  that  I  come  here  t'-night  to  help  y'." 

"Help?"  they  says.    (Quartette  again.) 

;<  Why,  yas.  Don't  you  think,  about  this  time,' 
that  Chicago  'd  look  pretty  good  to  you?" 

"  Chicago !  "  says  Porky,  low  and  wistful,  like 
he  didn't  never  expect  to  see  the  place  again. 

"And  hittin'  the  ties,  fer  two  dudes  like  the 
agent,  here,  and  the  parson " 

"Parson  be  hanged!"  says  the  last  named 
gent,  ugly  as  the  dickens. 

"I  hope  not,"  I  goes  on,  "but  you  never  can 
tell  what  the  boys'll  do." 


312  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher , 

The  doc  was  standin'  up.  As  I  said  that,  he 
come  down  kerplunk  onto  a  bench,  like  as  if  a 
spring  'd  give  way  in  his  laigs. 

"Lloyd,"  he  says,  "we — we — we're  willin'  to 
go,  but  we  ain't  got  no  money." 

'You're  what  I'd  call  land-poor,"  I  says. 
'  You  need  four  tickets — wal,  now,  you  own  that 
Andrews  chunk,  don't  y'  ?  " 

"Lloyd,"  says  the  real-estate  feller,  "you've 
got  the  dead  wood  on  us,  ole  man."  He  picked 
up  one  of  them  deeds  from  the  table.  "  Git  us 
the  tickets,"  he  says,  "  and  here's  the  Andrews 
property." 

"  A  up-freight  goes  by  in  twenty  minutes,"  I 
says.  And  started  fer  the  station. 

"Lloyd!"  calls  Porky  after  me,  "think  you 
could  spare  us  a'  extra  twenty  fer  grub? — you, 
don't  want  us  to  starve,  Lloyd.  And — and 
mebbe  you  could  use  the  rest  of  these  deeds." 

I  come  back. 

"Twenty?"  I  says;  "I'll  make  it  fifty  fer 
luck." 

They  was  tears  in  that  fake  parson's  eyes. 
"  Lloyd,"  he  says,  "  if  I  really  was  a  preacher, 
I'd  pick  you  fer  a  saved  man." 


Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher  313 

Later  on,  when  I  walked  into  Dutchy's  thirst- 
parlour,  the  boys  was  on  hand,  waitin'  patient. 
As  they  ketched  sight  of  me,  they  hollered 
some. 

"  My  friends,"  I  says,  "  this  is  where  I  stand 
treat.  But  it  ain't  licker  this  time,  no,  ma'am; 
I'm  presentin'  hunderd-foot  lots."  So  out  I 
drawed  my  little  bunch  of  deeds  and  handed  one 
to  each  feller.  Bergin  got  the  Observatory  site 
and  the  City  Park;  Rawson,  the  University 
grounds;  Hairoil,  the  Farmers'  and  Merchants' 
Bank  block;  Chub,  the  Court  House;  Sam 
Barnes,  the  spot  fer  the  Grand  Op'ra  House, 
and  Billy  Trowbridge,  the  land  fer  the  Deef, 
Dumb  and  Blind  Asylum.  Then  I  slid. 

Ten  minutes,  and  my  pinto  bronc  was  a-kitin* 
fer  the  Bar  Y  ranch-house.  Turnin'  in  at  the 
gate,  I  seen  a  light  in  the  sittin'-room  winda.  I 
dropped  the  reins  over  Maud's  haid  and  hoofed 
it  up  onto  the  porch.  And  inside,  there  was 
Macie,  a-settin'  in  her  rocker  in  front  of  the 
fire.  On  the  other  side  was  the  President  of  the 
Briggs  City  Pott'ry  Works. 

"  Boss,"  I  says,  as  I  shook  hands  with  him, 
"Boss,  I've  come  fer  you'  little  gal." 


314  Alec  Lloyd,  Cowpuncher 

Say!  it  took  him  quick,  like  a  stitch  in  the  side. 
'*'  Fer  my  gal? "  he  kinda  stammers. 

"Why — why,  Alec, "  she  whispers  to  me. 

"  Sewell,"  I  goes  on,  "  when  I  ast  you  f  er  her, 
a  wrhile  back,  you  said,  '  Git  a  piece  of  land  as 
big  as  the  Andrews  chunk.'  Wai/'  ( I  handed  out 
my  deed)  "would  you  mind  lookin'  at  this?" 

"  It's  yourn ! "  The  ole  man  put  his  hands  to 
his  haid. 

"Also,"  I  says,  rattlin'  the  little  stack  of 
twenties  in  my  right-hand  britches  pocket,  "  I'm 
fixed  t'  git  some  cows;  fifty  'r  so — a  start,  boss, 
just  a  start." 

"  How'd  you  do  it!  Why,  I'm  plumb  knocked 
silly!" 

"  But  you'  ain't  the  man  to  go  back  on  you' 
word,  Sewell.  I  can  take  good  keer  of  Mace 
now — and  I  want  to  be  friends  with  the  man 
that's  goin'  to  be  my  paw." 

He  begun  to  look  at  me,  awful  steady  and 
sober,  and  he  looked  and  he  looked — like  as  if 
he  hadn't  just  savvied.  Next,  he  sorta  talked  to 
hisself .  "  My  little  Made,"  he  kept  sayin' ;  "  my 
little  Made." 

She  put  her  arms  'round  him  then,  and  he 


1  Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher  315 

clean  broke  down.  "  Aw,  I  cain't  lose  my  little 
gal,"  he  says.  "  I  don't  keer  anythin'  about  land 
'r  cattle.  But  Macie — she's  all  I  got  left.  Dont 
take  her  away  from  me! " 

So  that  was  it!  (And  I'd  said  that  all  Sewell 
keered  fer  was  money.)  "Boss,"  I  says,  "you 
mean  you'd  like  us  to  live  here — with  you?  " 

He  come  over  to  me,  tremblin'  like  he  had  the 
ague.  "Would  y',  Cupid?"  he  ast.  "I'd  never 
interfere  with  you  two  none.  Would  y'?" 

"Aw,  daddy!"  says  Mace,  holdin'  to  him 
tight. 

:<Why,  bless  you*  heart,  Sewell,"  I  answers, 
"what  do  I  want  to  live  any  other  place  fer? 
Mace  is  what  I  want — just  Mace.  And,  say! 
you  take  back  you'  little  ole  crick-bottom." 

"  Got  more  land'n  I  want  now/' 

"  Boss," — I  belt  out  my  hand — "  here's  where 
you  git  a  new  son-in-law,  and  a  foreman  fer 
keeps  on  cow-punch  pay.  Shake ! " 

He  give  one  hand  to  Mace,  and  he  give  me 
the  other.  "  Not  by  a  long  shot,  Cupid ! "  he  says. 
"  Here's  where  I  git  a  half-pardner" 

So  here  I  am — settled  down  at  tHe  ole  Bar  Y. 


316  'Alec  Lloyd,   Cowpuncher 

And  it'd  take  a  twenty-mule  team  t'  pull  me 
offen  it.  Of  a  evenin',  like  this,  the  boss,  he  sits 
on  the  east  porch,  smokin';  the  boys  're  strung 
along  the  side  of  the  bunk-house  t'  rest  and  gass 
and  laugh;  and,  out  yonder,  is  the  cottonwoods, 
same  as  ever,  and  the  ditch,  and  the  mesquite, 
leveler'n  a  floor;  and — up  over  it  all — the  moon, 
white  and  smilin'. 

Then,  outen  the  door  nigh  where  the  sun- 
flowers 're  growin',  mebbe  she'll  come — a  slim, 
little  figger  in  white.  And,  if  it's  plenty  warm, 
and  not  too  late,  why,  she'll  be  totin'  the  smartest, 
cutest • 

Listen!  y'  hear  that? 

"Sweet  is  the  vale  where  the  Mohawk  gently 

glides 
On  its  fair,  windin'  way  to  the  sea " 

That's  my  little  wife,— that's  Macie,  now — 
a-singin'  to  the  kid! 


THE  END 


'ram  which  it  was  borrowed  ^ 


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